E Somerset
by PhantomProducer
Summary: "A man of low ambition, low expectations, but with everything to play for and everyone to watch after. For his duty to this realm is not only unswerving, but most filial, and had he the opportunity, he would prove that utterly." AU fic in which Edmund Tudor, duke of Somerset, lives and becomes involved in his brother Henry VIII's court. Rated T for safety.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing of _The Tudors_. That belongs to Showtime, Michael Hirst, etc. etc.

**A/N: **The premise of this story came to me as I read _The Six Wives of Henry VIII _by Alison Weir and puzzled over the Tudor family tree towards the back of the book. I was intrigued by the fact that after Mary came another son to Henry VII and Elizabeth of York, one who lived long enough to be entitled Duke of Somerset. And I thought, "What would it have been like had he lived past his first year, and grew up to be Henry VIII's heir presumptive? Would that have changed anything?" And thus, this came into being. I will be following _Tudors_ canon (meaning Henry VIII will look nothing like what he _actually_ looked like, etc.), but will also add in historical facts as I go along (except for the continued existence of Edmund Tudor). As always, I thank you for reading, and if you choose to review, I won't be opposed to it.  
I cannot promise frequent updates, but I will do my best to ensure that it won't be months in between chapters. Now, read on, my fair ficcers!

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April 10th, 1502

In the Palace of Placentia, the hearty children housed within its walls were silenced, the windows draped to block out the sun. Black clothes swathed them all, even the altar at morning mass was dark. For the first time in months, the clan was united, but for the saddest of reasons.

The boy, the toddler, did not truly understand the significance of it all. At three years of age, he did fancy himself a grown-up, but he could not grasp what has happened to his family. His mama's eyes were filled with tears, and Papa the King was most stern and forlorn before his young children. After dinner, the family was gathered in the hall, preparing to bid farewell to one another after a short visit.

It was partly because Arthur was dead, he knew that, and was buried far away from London. Big Brother Arthur, a true man (he was married, after all!), was no longer on Earth. God and his angels had collected him back into the fold, Mama the Queen told him and his sisters, and they must pray for his soul. Not because he has been naughty, no, but because she wished him to be at peace. And after praying for his peace, the King roughly announced that the household of his children, instead of banding together for comfort, were to be further split apart.

Edmund Tudor, all of three years old, felt his eyes well up and his face crumpled, so distressed was he by his mother's sadness and his father's abrupt nature. Burying his face into his mother's skirts, he cried deeply, but more in fear of losing the others rather than in sorrow.

Oh, he felt bad that Arthur was gone, to be sure. But his elder brother, thirteen years older, had always been a distant entity. Much like his father, truth be told, given how little he had seen either of them in his short life. His sisters, though, were solid and real, and the little boy was terrified that he would be the one taken away. He did not wish to leave them, nor his other older brother.

To his immense relief, Papa the King murmured that it would be Hal going to court instead, as the new heir to the throne.

Brother Hal was not crying, though. He was flat, stony and unmoved in the face of the sadness. Not because he did not feel bad, Edmund thought, but because now his papa was taking him away and Hal didn't like the idea. Edmund worried, briefly, that Hal—Prince Henry, sister Margaret chided him later in private—would have a tantrum, as his temperament was so unsteady these days. The way his blue eyes would cloud over in a rage, the way he would stomp about and overturn chairs when he was displeased, made Edmund afraid of ever crossing his brother.

"Soon," Papa the King remarked, "Henry will be formally invested with the title Prince of Wales, once Arthur's affairs are..."

The King trailed off, his voice shaking upon thinking of his elder son, the one who was meant to come after him. It was little comfort to them, but Edmund looked upon his present brother with a small measure of awe. His brother, Prince of Wales. Henry would become the next King of England once Papa was taken to be with Arthur and the angels. Hal of England...it sounded well to Edmund's ears, but he couldn't quite stop crying once he started. In that moment, his father stepped away from his now-eldest son and moved into the company of the women, extricating the youngest boy from his mother's arms.

"My lord duke, I command you to stop this fuss." A shake, gentle though it was, rocked Edmund's body. His father's hands gripped him tightly, and he was forced to look the King in the eye. In truth, the man frightened him a bit; a King required his subjects' absolute devotion, and his power was so great that to the mind of a young child, he was much like a god on Earth. "You'll only make yourself sick."

Tears still streaked down his face, but his mouth turned down into a deep frown. Edmund hated when his father said this, when anyone said that he would only work himself into illness if he was the least bit upset. It caused everyone to fuss over him and stop him from doing anything. He had been ill once, almost two years ago (a lifetime, surely), a high fever boiling him and his skin felt fiery. He was thought to be so close to death that the priest had been called to give him the Last Rites. At least, that's what Mary and Margaret always told him when he complained bitterly of the coddling treatment. He remembered none of this, but his nurses and sisters did, and whenever he so much as sneezed they look at him as though he would die right then and there. But he had recovered, he was not dead, and he almost pointed this out, but Papa cut him off.

"We need our Duke of Somerset to be well. Indeed, we need both our sons to remain well, with things being so uncertain."

His gaze bored into the young boy, before sweeping pointedly over to Hal and then to Mama. Edmund watched this, swiped a hand ineffectually over his face.

"What do you mean, sir?" he asked, driven to speak. The king looked down his long nose again, an eyebrow raising high and inviting Edmund to go on. "What is uncertain?"

The queen attempted to intercede, her kind eyes laced with worry. "Dear child, he only means that-"

"-I mean that if God chooses to call away another son of mine, the next had best be ready to step into his place. And being soft of heart is not an ideal trait for any son of a king to have," Papa said, stopping her speech. Stooping down to Edmund's level, he pointed a finger in the child's face. "So you best stop crying, and be well, for the sake of your family and your country. Is that clear, my lord duke?"

Edmund glanced past his father to Hal, who was scowling at Papa's turned back. He could not tell if he was upset at Papa for intimidating his younger brother, or if he was angry for implying that Edmund could easily take his place in case something bad should happen to him. Swallowing hard, the little boy nodded, balling his hands into fists to stop him from squirming. Finally, the king allowed a tight-lipped grin through, and chucked his son under the chin.

"Good lad."

Papa stood and went back to Hal, hand firmly upon his shoulder again. He barked a directive to the nurses and the tutors standing by, ordering them to continue their vigilance and maintaining of his children's dignity. Mama the Queen, her tears drying up, embraced the girls and her little son, whispering promises to visit them again soon. With that, she slipped her hand into the crook of her husband's arm, and was led out, Hal steered ahead of them.

When the door latched into place, Edmund finally understood what had happened.

His family was broken. This time, though, he did not afford himself the luxury of tears.

The Duke of Somerset, the second Tudor prince, would not cry out again, not even as his brother was bundled away or when his sisters muffled their tears into their sleeves. Instead, he followed the King and Queen out to the courtyard and lifted his small hand, fierce heart beating in time with the horses' hoof beats as they thundered back toward the city. He vowed to be well, and to wait, and only wondered what was to come to the great Tudor family as he was collected by his governess and led back into the world of children and play.

**xXxXxXx**

Henry VII, King of England, turned back in his saddle once, darting a look to the lone child bidding his entourage farewell. The tiny boy, drawn up as high as his little stance could allow him, faded and disappeared as he rounded the bend in the road, beating a path to Westminster with the Queen attempting to keep up. He closed his eyes briefly, keeping the boy's image in his mind a moment longer. Edmund Tudor, with his brown hair cropped close and his green eyes turned up to him in awe and dread, reminded him, sickeningly, of the lost Prince Richard of the Tower. His wife's young brother reborn, never mind what that fool Warbeck alleged, that's what came to mind when he laid eyes upon the boy. He was a York son born to this decidedly Lancaster King; he was the youngest Tudor child, the final defense against the decimation of their line…Heaven only knew what he would do in the future.


	2. Long Live the King

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing of _The Tudors_. That belongs to Showtime, Michael Hirst, etc. etc.

**A/N: **Well, this is a rarity indeed. Another chapter with 24 hours of the first one? That has not happened in awhile. And this by no means guarantees anything for tomorrow. Odds are I won't be able to update for awhile after today (no Internet connection at my apartment, alas). Anyway, read and enjoy, and review if you feel so inclined!

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April 19th, 1509

"Enough, Your Grace, for today. Master Horn shall await you in the stables this afternoon."

Edmund's head lifted at this, his bright eyes dancing at the thought of being released from the schoolroom. He had long tired of the Latin he was transposing and was desperate to be outside. The masculine arts awaited him, but those lessons were far more to his tastes. Not say the young Tudor prince was unintelligent, but he was not expected to be as scholarly as his brother, Prince Henry.

After all, Edmund was not the Prince of Wales, and with each passing day it looked less likely that he would ever wear the crown and command the state. Henry, or Hal as he still insisted to be called in his letters to him, was thriving by his father's side and continuing his good work at being the next heir to the throne. The Prince of Wales was in the best of health, reports coming on fast to his brother and remaining sister of his progress. A learned young man was he, and Edmund had the distinct feeling that every missive he received was one full of surety and promise. Their father's early fears were unfounded; the dynasty was well in hand with Hal.

_Ned, you would benefit from such an education under Master Skelton,_ Hal confessed in a previous letter. _Our father the King has done nothing better than to appoint this man to such a position, for between him and His Grace, I have all confidence I will become as great a king as any when God calls me to serve the state._

So the duke of Somerset could afford to tarry in the tiltyard or the stables without upsetting anyone too much. Unless Her Ladyship the King's Mother was visiting; then he would never hear the end of it.

He dipped his head in acknowledgment of his tutor, gathered his books and left the room with a quiet dignity that betrayed none of his excitement. At least, he was dignified until the door shut behind him. Then he tore down the hallways to his chambers, ready to fling away the tomes and head outside. Cantering down the halls, he ignored the gasps of the maids and the clucking tongue of his governess, instead flashing them a toothy grin and promising to watch his step next time.

"You are a prince, Your Grace. You should always be careful," Lady Lowell chided the ten-year-old. He merely shrugged and bowed continuing his journey. Someone or another was always telling him to be careful, tread lightly, be more considerate. To do otherwise insinuated that something would be lost, or broken.

He'd had enough of that as it was.

It had been a rough number of years for the youngest son of Henry VII. Not long after the death of their brother, Mother shortly followed Arthur to Paradise. Poor Queen Elizabeth, conceiving again at such a late time had caused her to lose her life in the bargain. A girl was born, but she did not live past her second week of life. Both were solemnly buried, though none of the family attended again. A year older than the first tragedy, Edmund was trusted with the knowledge that they did not go for the sake of the King; after all, one could easily imagine it was the King, and his future death should not be speculated on. And again the family suffered for the loss; not long after his mother was buried, elder sister Mary was sent off to Scotland to be married to King James. Regardless of the grievous circumstances, she was forced to go and do her duty. He remembered the flash of the diamonds set in her cap, auburn hair streaming down her back as she climbed into the carriage, turning away from her leftover siblings and riding into the future. Her letters, few and far between indeed, were stilted and full of her life within the Scottish borders.

Bereft of a mother and two sisters, the little boy clung to Margaret in those years, childishly holding to her side when they chanced to go to court to console and commiserate with their father. The king himself had wrought many changes. He kept the children separated from one another, forbidding Prince Henry to see even his family very often for fear of contagion. He was more susceptible to fits of frenzy, a cold fury that would tear through courtiers as harshly as a winter wind. The king had disintegrated, growing gaunt and sickly since his wife was laid to rest. To the people's eyes, he looked every bit the miserly overlord they thought him to be. To Edmund, he looked like a skeleton with the skin stretched too tight over the bones. It took all his nerve and a stern reminder that the King was also his father, and thus deserved his affection and obedience, no matter how angry he always seemed to be.

Margaret, with her girlish charms and pure prettiness, seemed to be the only one who could brave her father's stormy seas and come out unscathed. More luck to her, the boy figured. With the King paying attention to his last daughter, and with Grandmother doting upon Henry, Edmund found himself outside the family circle. Achingly lonely, the boy had his sports and his father's wards when they happened to be attached to the household at Placentia, but nothing could stop him from feeling constantly on the outside.

He wondered if the Dowager Princess of Wales felt the same ever since Arthur died. The princess, pretty enough with her blue eyes and sweeping hair, was always courteous and kind to him when he went to court, but was otherwise reserved. Katherine, her dresses patched but her smile bright, was barely one step away from penury and shunned by the majority of the nobility. The majority, which is, save for Margaret and himself...and Henry, whenever he go the chance to worm away from the King's constant surveillance. Edmund resolved to bring her sweetmeats the next time he was at court; he would like to make his brother's widow happy, if only for a moment.

Clattering into the courtyard, Edmund dipped his head in acknowledgment of the Master of Horse, John Horn. Short greetings were shot back and forth, the discussion tending towards having the youngest prince practice charging the quintain and remounting his horse in the midst of battle. As the boy grinned he pictured the swinging arm pushed by his lance, the bag of sand on the other side traveling fast to hit him as he continued through the pace. His horse, cavorting from the effort, would respond to his touch and turn back, ready to do battle with the garishly-painted object again. In his mind, Edmund was grown and his armor shining in these fantasies, and his agility would be marveled at.

The shouts of the guards at the gate suddenly made his daydreams careen to a halt. Thunderous hoof beats echoed in the enclosed space, the riders clattering in and forming lines around him. The boy quaked, but he was determined to not show the sudden spring of fear in his heart. It dissipated swiftly, for he recognized the king's livery upon the escort, the standard of his father shifting in the breeze. Recovering his faculties, the young duke waited as the armed guards halted and made way for their master, assumedly the king or one of his senior Council members. The urgency of the arrival left little doubt to his mind that no matter who the visitor was, they would be the bearer of some great news. Good or bad was left to be seen.

Spying at last the visitor, the boy gasped in delight and shock.

"Hal?"

It was true; his brother Henry had come, his boon companions riding in behind him and closing the ring. Hal looked as well as ever: blue eyes shining, lips set in a half grin, dark hair cropped close. He was tall in the saddle, and when his sight settled upon his younger brother, the grin turned into a bright beam. The Prince of Wales smoothly dismounted, riding clothes neatly trimmed in fur and traveling cap set jauntily upon his head. He looked, in that moment, kingly. And Edmund was once again in awe.

This brother was the one Edmund idolized, though Father wanted him to emulate Arthur instead. Henry was a quick-witted man, with a good heart and natural endurance that made him a veritable beast in the tiltyards. Hal could have been a Crusader, a knight of the Holy Church, but he stayed to become the future king instead. Though correspondence was irregular between them, Edmund felt that genuine affectation was in the words of Henry's letters. Edmund had no desire to be the Prince of Wales; but to be Henry for a day, that would be a delight.

Why, however, had he come?

Quickly, the protocol that had been beaten into his brain since birth reasserted itself and made Edmund bow in reverence, following Master Horn's example.

"Your Highness," the smaller prince murmured, gaze lowered to the ground.

"Your Grace." Henry barely allowed him to finish his obeisance before raising him up and engulfing him in a 'bear's hug'. "Brother Ned, you do appear to have grown!"

"Indeed, Your Highness, another full hand span!"

A commotion in the entry caused them both to turn. Margaret, her gown tripping her as she ran to them, huffed indignantly.

"Edmund, why did you not tell me Hal was coming?" she chastised him, her grin counteracting her annoyance. Her light eyes danced at the prospect of the secret visit, impressed with Henry's daring. "However did you obtain Father's permission?"

Bending down, Henry accepted her kiss and waved away the younger boy's response.

"I came without warning, Margaret, and with good reason."

The cheerfulness in his demeanor shifted to muted sorrow. His hands perched on his siblings' shoulders, looking down upon them both with such sadness that Edmund was immediately bewildered.

"Henry, what is it?"

The Prince of Wales swallowed hard against a knot in his throat before he nodded back to his companions. Glimpsing them, Edmund identified the Duke of Buckingham watching the royal children warily from his mount, Master Compton and Master Knivert loitering just beyond. Charles Brandon, another favorite in the children's household years ago, was steadying his horse. None of the latter were of the nobility, but to Hal's mind they were just as worthy of his attention and friendship as old Buckingham was.

"My friends and I have come to convey you to Richmond posthaste. Father...Father is very ill."

**xXxXxXx**

The duke of Somerset sat on the bench just outside his father's bedchamber, swinging his legs impatiently as he waited for his summons. The doctors, Hal had murmured on their way through the palace, demanded that to preserve his grace's health, minimal access would be allowed to him. And so, they agreed to be with him in turns as he dozed on and off through the day. His Lady Grandmother, seated next him with a bit of embroidery, paused in her sewing to glare at his ministrations. The boy readily complied to the unspoken command and stilled himself. The guard at the door would not meet his eye, and the servants scuttled about like lost crabs, shuffling this way and that to serve the royal family's needs, but unwilling to leave the room in order to hear about the king's condition.

The leave-taking of Placentia was rushed, as Edmund and Margaret both were shunted onto their horses with alarming speed after Hal's whispered confession. The trip to Richmond Palace was a blur, the shouts of some peasants by the road echoing as they passed. Edmund clenched the reins, turning over his brother's words in his head. Certainly, Father had been unwell for some time; honestly, he'd never recovered from Mother's death, and even before that he had been somewhat gaunt in appearance. But to be near death? Such a thought seemed impossible…after all, the King was a war hero, a man who had survived exile and set backs. He persevered over death and the threats of Richard III and rebels at the city gates. Could this man, who had united England under one banner, be felled by something as inconsequential as a fever, as his doctors were saying? It beggared belief in Edmund's mind.

But Henry, the prized heir to the throne could not have fetched him or Margaret if the King was even remotely well. Too risky, in Father's opinion, to let Hal out beyond the palace confines. Maybe it was not as dire as all that, but the King, in his increasing fury and frenzy, had imagined Death at every corner, since he was a frequent family visitor as it was. Perhaps that was the case, Edmund thought.

He knew better than to mention this to his grandmother Lady Margaret, though. Likely she would chastise him for doubting the king's doctors and the king's own word. His Grace was never one to feign illness, and to even think otherwise would surely be breaking the fourth commandment. Then likely as not, Grandmother would quote scripture in her butchered Latin and send him off to chapel for penance. No, it was better for Edmund to sit quietly on the bench and wait his turn for admittance. He only wished he'd brought along his copy of _The Canterbury Tales_ to break up the solitude. He had a mind to read the knight's tale again when he had the chance.

The door creaked open then, and Margaret stepped out. Her face, bathed in tears, was in clean contrast to her rigidly calm voice. It was obviously more serious than he'd previously thought; Margaret never spent her tears on anything she did not think deserved them.

Beckoning him forward, she said, "Come, Edmund. Father wishes to see you now."

In a moment of nervousness, the lad tentatively glanced at his grandmother, her eyes hard and her hand pushing him (albeit gently) out of his seat. Suddenly, he did not care to see whether his father was truly ill. Forcing his legs forward, he fought back the urge to run out of the presence chamber, flying as fast as he could back to the nursery, to Placentia, to the farthest corner of England. Slowly, he crossed the threshold, sharing one final look with his sister as they changed places. As the door crawled shut, he turned his eyes to the great bed that dominated the chamber.

A sob caught in his throat. Papa looked so weak, so small in the bedclothes. His face was thin, his eyes shut against a pain that wracked his body. Though he was a man of middling height, in the bed he looked no bigger than Mary had years ago. His patchy hair had gone full gray, and his chest lurched with horrible coughs. As the king moved to wipe his mouth with a handkerchief, Edmund thought he spied something dark stain the cloth.

He blinked, shocked. Is this what the great Tudor scion had come to?

Father's dark eyes turned in his direction, through the haze and the darkness. "Approach, boy."

Shivering, Edmund complied, edging around the great bed and seating himself on a stool positioned there. A bony hand stumbled across the coverlet, palm turning up. Silently, the prince slipped his hand into his father's much larger one, marveling at the paper-like feel of skin and the sharpness of the bones beneath.

"Your Grace..." he started, unsure of what he could say that would be any comfort to this dwindling man.

Henry coughed, turning his head towards Edmund. "Father, my son. In these late days, titles mean very little among family."

The boy nodded. "Yes, Father."

Another convulsion in the bed. "I am told...that you are proving yourself an able and intelligent young man."

"Reasonably enough, Father, according to my tutors," Edmund said, shrugging away the hours and days spent in studying Latin, French, and the classics. "And I am learning the art of warfare, as you requested."

The king was silent, continuing to just stare at him. Uncomfortable, the boy decided to speak again.

"I have been practicing with the quintain, my lord, and Master Horn has engaged me in hand-to-hand combat. He has said that I will make a formidable opponent one day."

For some minutes, the child told a story of how his horse had thrown him off after being scared by a falling tree. The duke remembered at the last moment to tuck himself in, and instead of barreling into the trunks around them, he rolled down the hill and broke through the brush. When he stopped, he was pleased to have emerged little ruffled from the incident, a bruise on his side the only indication that his horse had bucked him. After he confessed to running right back up the hill and remounting, the king did something most unusual: he smiled broadly.

"Good. I am most pleased with your progress, my son," he replied, raising the stained kerchief to his mouth once more. "It will serve you well to be quick-witted and strong, my son. A prince of England cannot afford to be anything less."

The king withdrew the cloth, and struggled to sit up. Edmund, though a slight boy of ten, shot forward and steadied the older man, able to get him upright with little effort on his part.

"Your brother," Henry murmured through the movements, "will need to be guided by smart men, and he will need strong men to defend him. When you come of age, I have no doubt that you will be one of those men. In these next few years, I advise to watch the court closely and the men your brother chooses as his advisers. They will bear watching."

Edmund swallowed hard, wincing as the king gripped his hand ever tighter. "Surely, Your Grace, there is no need for me to do so. This illness-"

Henry glared. "Don't play the sycophant, my lord duke, and don't be deliberately stupid. Both are below your dignity. A blind man can see that I am not long for this world."

The tears that had been pressed back threatened to spill, but Edmund merely bowed his head and directed his gaze to the coverlet. Father's grip squeezed even tighter, causing him to bite off a yelp.

"You are a good boy, Edmund. Be good for England and Henry."

With that, the king slumped back into the pillows, releasing the child's hand and waving him out. A final dismissal, but one that could not be refused. Edmund, who would not have been enticed into the room minutes before, found he could not bear to leave. He did not want the last image of his father to be the broken creature, floundering in the great bed and weary of the world. A strangled whisper preempted his departure, a request for Edmund to fulfill. As he bowed and began to back away, he fastened his eyes upon the headboard, the initials of Father and Mother lovingly intertwined in the wood. Leaving the King's apartments, the duke did not spare a glance to his waiting grandmother or sister. His feet took him, unconsciously, to his brother's new suite of rooms. Ignoring the guards and pushing through the door, he ignored Hal's annoyance at the unbidden visit. He knelt at his prince's feet, fingernails pressing hard into his palms to allow him to speak calmly.

"Father wishes to see you."

And as Hal inclined his head gravely and moved away, Edmund could hear the chant that would come in the next few days. It crashed and sang, Hal's proud bearing and condescending nods making the inner tocsin blare louder and louder in the youngest boy's ears as the Prince of Wales went to see his father.

_The king is dead...long live the King..._

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**A/N: **Historically, it was Margaret and not Mary who married the King of Scotland in 1503, but since _The Tudors_ sought to eliminate one of Henry VIII's sisters/smashed them together into one character, I decided to switch them in order to assert that there were two daughters of Henry VII and keep some semblance of historical "fact". Still I hope you enjoyed it!


	3. The First Act

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing of _The Tudors_. That belongs to Showtime, Michael Hirst, etc. etc.

**A/N:** Here we are, another chapter in. We're jumping a little ahead in 1509, right away in the first weeks of Henry VIII's reign...

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June 26th, 1509

Yawning, the duke of Somerset left his chambers, turning down the hallway of the palace slowly. It had been an exhausting couple of days, his brother the king showing boundless energy while dancing and singing and greeting his grateful people. Two days after the coronation, the court was still celebrating the ascendance of Henry VIII and Queen Katherine of Aragon.

Due to the will of the council, and according to the will of their father, Henry had wed Katherine earlier in the month. Edmund had attended, as did the King's other friends and six of Katherine's ladies. They had dined publicly, Katherine given the seat of honor to the right of the King. In public, he claimed it was all policy, to hold onto the princess' dowry, but everyone with eyes could see the affection he had for the forlorn young woman. Their grandmother Lady Margaret set her lips in a thin line, knowing the truth of her grandson's lust, but she stopped commenting about Katherine's inability to be a proper queen once the official announcement was made. He wanted to save her from the wretched mire his father had put her in, wanted to play the knight errant to her damsel in distress. Adoration streamed from the king to his lady, and Katherine returned it threefold. Dispensation, acquired long ago when their marriage was first proposed, was produced, and thus they were wed. Delighting in each other's company, the rulers of England then looked forward to the future, to their grand joint coronation.

The king and queen, triumphant in white satin, red velvet, and cloth of gold, rode in a gilded chariot to Westminster Abbey, the jewels on their clothes unable to outshine their bright smiles. Cheers and shouts of praise rained down upon them, the people ecstatic to have a young king and beautiful queen again. The procession of the nobility behind them basked in the glory of their monarchs happy to endure the winding cavalcade and slow procession with great joy. Edmund and his sister Margaret's cortege followed after their brother's, a gap in the proceedings to signify that this was Henry's day and attention should be on him. Henry was the golden prince, laden in the best cloth and with the fairest face any person in London had ever seen. And Katherine, dark hair streaming free and laced with pearls and other jewels, looked upon her husband with deepest pride and love.

The court, careful not to outdo their king, still appeared in sumptuous dress as they followed behind. The Duke of Somerset, choosing to emphasize his Tudor inheritance, wore a doublet of Lincoln green, the sleeves slashed and protruding from his golden overgown. Not as found of jewelry as Henry was, Edmund made due with a chain of jewels and Tudor roses which had once belonged to Brother Arthur, and his ducal coronet. Margaret, glittering with rubies and diamonds in a rose-colored gown, rode alongside him, instructing her younger brother to keep smiling and waving, no matter how tired his arms grew. He retorted that she should let up on her fierce hold on her horse's reins, lest she be shied into a player's platform they were just passing. Her laughter soared high, mingling with the cheers and well wishes.

"_God bless King Harry!"_

"_Long life and prosperity for the Queen!"_

"_Three cheers for the House of Tudor!"_

What had surprised Edmund, beyond the strong outpouring of the people devotion to his brother, was the smattering of cheers for _him_. It did not occur to him, until that moment, that he was no longer just Edmund, Duke of Somerset (and as a part of the next day's festivities, the newly-invested Duke of Cornwall). He was Prince Edmund, heir apparent, and the people of England were glad for him as well. He was pleased with it, almost absurdly pleased with maintaining some popularity with his brother's subjects. It felt nice to be lauded in public; he had no idea the people even really knew who he was, so confined was his access to crowds and open court ceremonies. From there, the rest of the day had been a blur, the somber crowning of the king and queen giving way to the vivacious banquet and entertainments set up that night. It was a whirl of color and joy, laughter and praise. It was life bursting forth from the old king's restricted court, and Henry was the source.

However, it would not do for the youngest Tudor prince to keep neglecting his lessons, and so he was destined to seat himself back upon the hard bench for hours two mornings after the coronation. A few hours were what he could spare, as the king had determined to host another joust on the nonce and required the royal family's attendance. Edmund's new companions, Anthony Browne and William Gage, had preceded him to the room and welcomed him warmly as he shuffled in.

Anthony was the son of the Standard Bearer of England, more sober and discreet in the schoolroom than any other of his predecessors. However, his true talent was in horsemanship. At nine years old, he had the best seat of any of the royal children and his connections with his mounts made it seem as the horse was only an extension of himself. His brown hair, forever drooping into his eyes, fell forward out of his cap as he made his bow. And William, Sir John Gage's son, was practically bursting with excitement, as was his wont. High strung, easily entertained and as gossipy as an old maid, there was not much that William did not like to talk about. Though they were both not long in Edmund's household, the boys were becoming fast friends, eager to be free of the elder lads who were more King Henry's age than theirs.

"I've news, Your Grace," he whispered to Edmund as he clasped his hand in greeting, his blue eyes cautiously sweeping to their teacher to see if he was watching them. Master Ashton was preparing a lecture on the speeches of Cicero for the day, so absorbed in the task of fixing his lesson plan that he did not notice the young duke's arrival. Barely nodding, Edmund sat down with his new mates, moving slowly so as not to excite attention.

"Go on, William."

The boy swallowed, his eyes going round as he said, "I've heard from my father that this morning the king had Master Dudley and Sir Richard Empson arrested."

"What for?" Anthony cut in, intrigued. "What did they do?"

"Nothing, as far as I can tell. They were arrested on suspicion of treason, but my father Sir John suspects His Majesty had other motives."

Edmund bristled, not liking the tone his friend's voice had taken. "Such as what, William?"

The other lad blinked, rubbing his neck as he thought. "Papa has said that Dudley and Empson, as tax collectors for Your Grace's father, are widely unpopular with the people. He says His Majesty is hoping to make the common folk happier by doing away with all the remainders of King Henry VII's reign."

Anthony leaned away, seeing the flush of red tinting Edmund's face. "Including those who only did as they were commanded?"

"Indeed."

"I'm sure His Majesty had just cause to do so," Edmund said, puffing out his chest a bit. "Whatever the cause."

William held up a hand, indicating he wasn't finished. "But the outcome of such arrests do not bode well for the gentlemen in question. If they are convicted of treason-"

"And that's just it, William. _If_ they are convicted. Proof will have to be furnished, if the matter comes to trial at all. It is but the first days of my brother's reign; he will not want the occasion marred by such sorrowful things."

The other boy shrugged, keeping his gaze lowered. "As you say, Your Grace."

At that moment, Master Ashton noticed his royal student was seated at the table, immediately shoving the texts into the boys' hands and scolding them soundly for not asserting their presence once they'd arrived. As the time wore on, Edmund chewed over what his friend had told him, what was being implied. Henry's veritable first act as anointed king was to sentence two of their father's closest advisers to a long stay in prison. It sat heavily in the boy's mind. Why would Henry arrest men for doing no more than serving their king, as William had told him? He did not understand it, and so he plodded through his lessons, earning another sharp reprimand from the tutor for being unmindful and slow. Threatening the prince with handing a report to the king about his lack of diligence, Edmund begged pardon hotly before exiting the room. He was pondering the question of why as he pursued the path to the royal chambers, to join in the procession down to the tiltyards. The other boys trotted after him, conjecturing about the joust and forgetting about the arrested men.

"My lord of Somerset!"

In the great archway to the main hall, Edmund stopped short, automatically bowing low in the direction of Henry's voice. Anthony and William likewise prostrated themselves before His Majesty, in awe of the king's splendor. In his retinue were the old companions of the Placentia house: Brandon, Knivert Compton, and all three looked down upon the smaller lads with condescension and half-hidden smiles.

"My dread lord and king," Edmund remarked, half in jest. A throaty chuckle emitted from his brother's mouth and he tried to grin. Seeing the internal struggle upon the young lad's face, the king threw a companionable arm around his brother's shoulders.

"Tell me, Ned, what is bothering you? Are you not excited to attend the jousting tournament? Alas, I know you long to join us, but…"

Edmund's green eyes connected with Henry's blue ones. "What did Sir Dudley and Sir Empson do, Your Majesty?"

Henry's jaw set, his gaze narrowed. "Ah, so you've heard of their arrest. Gossiping in the schoolroom, were you?"

The young boy stiffened, suddenly nervous. He did not want to implicate his friends in talking about the king's matters. "It is widely said, Majesty."

Henry glared at him, but did not otherwise comment. News spread like wildfire at the court, especially news of this caliber. Odds were being laid to the outcome of the trials for both men already, even though procedure for both would not happen for some time. After all, Henry was not truly through celebrating yet.

"It does not concern you, Brother."

Edmund shrugged, pretending not to care. "I just was wondering as to the cause for the arrests, sir, since we have been merrily enjoying your ascension thus far."

Henry quickly pulled him to a window embrasure, waving their collective followers away to stand at a discreet distance. Once they were given space by the other courtiers, Henry leaned in to whisper in Edmund's ear.

"They plotted our father's death and the usurpation of the throne."

Edmund's jaw dropped, his voice gone. He could not fathom what his brother was telling him. He did not know much about Dudley or Empson, but he knew the men well enough to see that they never wished harm upon Father or their family.

After all, why would they bite the hand that fed them?

He could only listen as Henry went on, "Dudley was amassing an army, Empson agreeing to fund the venture once the king passed on. Their would-be plot was to have been effected immediately upon his death, but Dudley withdrew at the last moment. Empson confessed the truth to me only this morning, hoping to court my grace."

Edmund went pale. "Henry, I cannot believe-"

"You must, brother, for it is the truth."

The young duke said nothing for a few moments, willing his heartbeat to slow down and breathing. His gaze shifted to the window before them, not truly seeing anything beyond the glass. "And will you forgive them if they repent their actions?"

The king's grip on his thin shoulder started to hurt, his smile mostly compressed. "If they do so, Brother. I will be a just king."

Edmund sighed in relief, glad to hear his brother would not imprison men unjustly. "Thank you for clarifying for me, Your Majesty."

The façade thawed, and Henry's true delight in his brother's company came through. "I am always glad to guide you, Edmund. You can always trust in me."

**xXxXxXx**

August, 1509

They did not repent. Or so Henry told him three months later, once the trial was finished. Dudley and Empson, brought to trial for doing no more than collecting money for the Tudor family exchequer, were convicted of treason, to be beheaded at the King's pleasure on Tower Hill. Edmund, though already ten, was spared attending the executions, but he felt as though he could see them happening before his eyes when Henry took him out among the crowds. To further please the people and endear the royal family to them, Henry had decreed that all money extracted from the commoners was to be returned. He could afford to be generous; he had plenty of money, and he wished to spread his blessings around since the queen had proven fertile already.

The people cheered, the axe fell, and the cannons boomed, blood money dripping from Edmund's palms into beggars' clutches. The heads glowered on Tower Bridge for weeks afterward, accusing him of seeing and doing nothing. His nightmares were slathered in blood, echoing screams for mercy.

Edmund did not blame his brother, could not blame him. As a monarch, tough choices had to be made, and sometimes gruesome ones to keep the throne stable and their families safe. Henry had told him it was necessary to order executions, that they threatened the throne and his people if they were kept alive. And beheading was a better death than others; at least they did not suffer being hanged, drawn and quartered. Edmund understood his reasoning, but a seed of doubt was planted in his mind as he thought back to what William had told him all those months ago.

The king had his reasons. The people needed to be protected by their king, and this act ensured their love for Henry.

But if he had to execute two men just to appease the crowds, what more would Henry do in the future to continue to love him as their king?

Edmund shuddered.

* * *

**A/N 2:** It's true. Henry did indeed have Master Dudley (guess who his descendant is) and Sir Empson were arrested only a few days after Henry's coronation, but they were not executed until 1510. Just moved it up a year...Henry also did promise to return some of the money taken by them to his people. Also, Anthony Browne (born around 1500, later knighted) was a real person who did a few things during Henry VIII's reign. It was nice to find someone who would've been around Edmund's age in real life that could be his friend! William Gage is my invention, but Sir John Gage existed and did have quite a few children; odds are one of them would be a boy old enough to have lessons with Edmund.

Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it, and I'll see you next chapter!


	4. Declaration of War

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing of _The Tudors_. That belongs to Showtime, Michael Hirst, etc. etc.

**A/N: **This is just part one of what would have been an incredibly long chapter. Seriously, it was either chop this up into multiple parts or have the eternally-long chapter. My own patience could not take that. But in any case, onto the chapter!

* * *

May 2nd, 1513

"A toast! To war, and to the French for obliging us so!"

"To war!" The company chorused, their raised cups high. Henry smiled beatifically upon them all, his court. Back when he initially agreed to join the Holy League with Spain and Venice, he secretly nursed a hope that he, the King of England would be called on for aid. The French were always a belligerent lot, and he had nursed a sort of friendly contempt for them (if only the English had held onto their inheritance, instead of the small spit of Calais!) since he first began to learn their language in the royal children's household. The fact that King Louis was just as intent on antagonizing him was not lost on the young king, and he hungered to teach the old man a thing or two about English strength and courage. The inclusion of Maximillian, Holy Roman Emperor, to the league a year ago had been the deciding factor for Henry to start carrying out his promises. Remaining troops were being sent into Calais to bolster the army already stationed in Hondarribia, poised for attack in June at the latest. And, astoundingly enough, Henry had decreed that he would lead the invasion himself, like his father had done to claim his crown. The council, shocked to its core, would not deny him this, and so accepted his arrangements without much fuss.

Thomas Wolsey, previously a chaplain in his father's time, had generously accepted the responsibility of organizing the entire affair, from lining up members of the aristocracy to serve as commanders to right down to the amount of ale and food for the soldiers per day. Nearing forty years, the man had put in hours of planning and negotiating that would have tired someone half his age. He even went so far as to arrange the festivities for the night, hoping only to make his king merry before going to war. Henry approved of this man's diligence, knowing how more of his actions were driven by ambition than by simple service but was content with the idea of someone else handling all the details and allowing him the leisure of adventuring with his companions in the meantime. In ample time, he would have to reward Wolsey for his efforts. This was his final night before pursuing his long-wanted campaign against the French, and he intended for his people to make the most of it. He drank deeply from his golden goblet, with everyone following suit. Applause rippled through the crowd shortly afterward, the musicians stirring again and playing a merry jig for the King's obvious pleasure.

Edmund, who normally did not mind the taste of wine, found it bitter to swallow. Swirling the drink in his cup, he stared moodily out upon the happy crowd and ignored his older brother's jubilation. The royal army was to set out for France on the morrow.

And he was to be left behind. Even Anthony and William were to go, acting as their fathers' men, on to obtain glory on the field. Oh, certainly Henry put a nicer spin upon his situation, claiming that he would be working with Katherine as she ruled the country in his absence. It would be training, as he was coming of age to sit in on council meetings now. But that did not make it any more palatable. Edmund wanted to go with his brother, with his friends, to serve his country and God. Instead, he would be left with the women, with the children, and it rankled. At fourteen, he was old enough to serve. In a royal household, he was old enough to be considered a man, ready for marriage and children and his station in life. If he was old enough to have a wife in reality and not just on paper, then he should have been old enough break lances against his enemies.

He did not know all the details involved with mounting his brother's campaign, but he understood exactly who he had to thank for his post in England. Wolsey, pleased with being indispensable to the king for the fist time in his long career, had thought the risk was too great to have both king and heir apparent on the field, and so created his coming role as adviser to Her Majesty. Edmund, irate youth that he was, could not even look at the priest, who had attended the banquet as well. The man, though, had the decency to not seek him out, instead moving among the court and giving blessings to the crowds as he went. Wolsey was everywhere, doing everything for Henry. The Duke of Somerset resented him for that.

"Still sulking?" a voice murmured sweetly in Edmund's ear. Glancing up, he just glared as Margaret smiled broadly at him. Not bothering to wait for an invitation, she sat in the unoccupied chair to his left. The Duke of Buckingham, in a rare show of good temper, had vacated it to engage in the dancing with the wife of some count or another. Waving her hand out towards the festivities, she continued, "How can you be unhappy in the face of this wonderful warmongering?"

"Easy," Edmund groused, setting his elbows on the table and leaning forward. "I'll be left here with you instead of going to France. No honor or glory for the only man left in England."

"You know why you can't go," Margaret rejoined, sobering in the face of his churlishness. "If anything happened to Hal-"

Edmund glared, growling vehemently, "I know all that!"

Margaret flinched, surprised at her little brother's harsh mood. Sighing, she recalled the early days of her transition to adulthood; she had been a shrew, an emotional wreck and tyrant with her ladies on her worst days, only to sob and apologize profusely for her actions. Such was the change of life, Lady Guilford had told her. At least with women, they could bleed themselves of their ill humor with outward expressions without anyone really paying it any mind. Women's troubles, they would say, and go on with their lives.

She wondered if Edmund was unduly suffering from his own imbalance of humors. Peering at him, she watched him flush bright red under her scrutiny. His gaze dropped to his hands, his fingers fidgeting with the stem of his goblet.

"Sorry," he muttered under his breath. "But you have to understand: this was not how I pictured doing my duty by my country. Other men are allowed to go and prove themselves in the field, and yet I am stranded here? I am the son of a warrior king, the brother of a warrior king!"

She smirked a little. "Ah, so this is an injury to your pride."

He snorted derisively. "What pride?"

"Clearly the pride that's still smarting, else you would not have made that remark," Margaret said, straightening in her chair. The royal gaze had been directed towards her and her younger sibling, and she managed to just send Henry a bright smile in reassurance. Edmund, still glowering into his drink, did not see his brother's grin slide into a deep frown. "And perhaps you should not be making such remarks here."

Quirking up an eyebrow, Edmund finally pulled himself out of his self-pity and looked up, shivering a little at the darkness in Henry's eyes. Pulling a smile that was half grimace, he raised his cup to his king. It was Henry's turn to ignore him, choosing instead to give his attention to his queen. Katherine, having witnessed the exchange, began to ply her husband with last-minute questions and requirements for her stint in regency.

With the king being occupied, Edmund chose his moment to leave the dais carefully. As the musicians struck another chord, he held out a hand automatically to his older sister, practically dragging her onto the floor to mix with the other dancers. He would be less noticeable there, and could continue nursing his grief.

Not that Margaret was having any of it. Turning and clapping in time to the beat, she rolled her eyes at him. "Besides, to have both you and Henry in France would be intolerable. For me, especially."

Edmund couldn't help himself he chuckled at that. "Yes, suffering interminable needlework would be torture, indeed."

The dance brought them together, making it easier to talk.

"And at least for you, you will be assisting the queen. The second in the kingdom, making decisions and being a king in all but name," Margaret whispered, pitching her voice low. Even lost in the crowd of dancers, they had to be careful. Henry was incredibly possessive of his crown; to hint at another person coming to the throne sent him in a rage. Edmund did not respond to that, but his thoughtful expression was a welcome change from the surly one he'd been wearing all day.

King in all but name...he and Katherine working in tandem. For some, it beggared belief that a lad of fourteen and a woman of seven-and-twenty would be running England, but such was the case. Henry would trust no others with such a task. If their Lady Grandmother were still alive and had her way, Edmund would still be shut up in Somerset House, and the queen would be relinquishing her duties to the men who the old woman had placed in the council. Those men were bought by her, and to her they remained loyal, even four years after her death. Often they cast the prince caustic glances in meetings, but did no more than that. After all, what if they ended up nay-saying the future king?

His eyes swept up towards the dais, sliding over his sister-in-law. She had dressed in a golden gown, lined with pearls and a grand golden cross around her neck. Her crown, rarely brought out, encased her dark hair and lent further majesty to her appearance. She had a duty to look her best tonight of all nights. He had heard the mutters, the murmurs deriding Katherine and her abilities to hold the throne while Henry was off at war. Many upon the council found it distasteful to answer to a woman, and a Spanish woman besides. Not only that, but if the rumors that she was pregnant again proved true, how successfully could she run a kingdom such as their isle from her chambers when she was finally shut up to give birth?

Knowing the iron will and furious intelligence hidden beneath the mask of ladylike frailty, Edmund found himself wondering how and when she would put those doubting old men in their place. He snickered at that. It was not a question of "if" at all; Katherine would do it, and soundly, too, if he was any good judge of character.

Suddenly cheerful, he threw himself into the dancing with fervor. To see Katherine command the King's council as well as her mother Isabella had commanded hers...he looked forward to that.

After all, he now couldn't wait to acquit himself as well, or possibly even better than Hal could.

**xXxXxXx**

August 15th, 1513

Edmund, fresh from the company of his tutors, had declined the offer to go riding in exchange of attending on Queen Katherine. A sheaf of documents were balanced in his hand, collected from the King's Secretary to be handed directly to Her Majesty for approval or to be sent onward to the King. Edmund acted as a sort of clerk, but one who was invited to give his opinion on any point that Katherine required. In truth, the job itself was a bit demeaning for the heir of Henry, but it afforded him the opportunity to feel as though he was helping create policy. And whatever he and Katherine could not agree on, Wolsey acted as an impartial third party. In those moments, Edmund truly felt a kinship to the queen; neither of them much liked having to depend on the high-reaching churchman, no matter how indispensable he could be. In private, Katherine confided that she feared him having French sympathies, given his time in Calais, and though Henry remained loyal to the agreement with her father, she knew that it may not last forever. The Duke of Somerset merely found him to be an annoyance, almost always tripping over him to and from council meetings. Or on the way to Katherine's chambers for going through paperwork, as he was at this moment.

The prince made sure to stay one step ahead of him, silently indicating that he would not allow him to approach until invited. If he could, he would merely restrict Wolsey's interactions to council meetings, but as he was the organizer of Henry's campaign, he had a duty to council with Katherine and Edmund. And from the way he was carrying himself the young prince could see how delighted he was at the prospect. The boy barely managed to conceal an eye roll as Wolsey trailed behind him, like a lost pup looking for attention. Though he was a churchman and an elder, therefore demanding his respect in that capacity, Edmund did not afford him much but a curt greetings and a hand wave. Some courtiers muttered (in not-so-muted tones) about how arrogant Prince Edmund was becoming, before even reaching his majority. He didn't see it as arrogance, though; he just did not see the reason in pandering to the man of God when his brother the King was already inclined to do so.

As he was expected, the door to the presence chamber whisked open when he got within five feet of it. Pausing beyond the threshold, Edmund swept a deep bow to his sister-in-law, quickly doing away with his obeisance. For her part, Katherine, who ad been seated at a desk stationed in the center of the room, rose and bobbed a swift curtsy to the prince. Her face was laced with exhaustion, but she never failed to greet her brother-in-law with a smile.

"Well met, Lord Somerset. How are you this day?"

"Well enough, Your Majesty." He straightened his shoulders. "And yourself?"

Her blue eyes flicked from him down to her stomach, the grin becoming more genuine. Her pregnancy, much like the previous ones, was progressing apace. She was sure, though, that this next child would be strong. "Very well, indeed, Your Grace."

Inclining her head in acknowledgment of Wolsey, she gestured the men forward. "What have you today, gentlemen?"

Wolsey spoke, his tone even and almost dull, "Your Majesty, I have come to request your signature on several documents pertaining to the supplies and welfare of the army in France. His Majesty's commanders have requested a need for more cannon and shot, as well as a greater supply of sustenance for the troops. It is my intention to access the stores within the Tower to meet the need for cannon, and to negotiate a trade agreement with the Low Countries on Your Majesty's behalf to feed England's army. If you would be so kind...?"

Raising her eyebrows, she motioned for the papers to be brought forth. Edmund maneuvered around the desk, placing the sheets down one by one, her swift calligraphy applied to each one. To Wolsey, she directed a fierce gaze. "Naturally, sir. If it is in the best interests of our army, of our people, then I sign these cheerfully."

The documents signed, Wolsey bent the knee to his queen, satisfied to have the monarchy's great trust.

"Keep me abreast of our troops' comfort and care, sir," Katherine murmured just as he prepared to turn away. "I will expect reports from you in due course."

The older man gritted his teeth, barely managing to keep his sycophantic grin pasted on. Once the door was shut behind him, the queen breathed out slowly, relaxing in her chair. Edmund looked down at her sympathetically.

"It is not so easy, is it?"

"Not as easy as Henry had hoped it would be," she remarked shrewdly. "At least Wolsey is more pliable than others."

Edmund shrugged, unable to say more. What could he really tell her, anyway? They knew, going into the fray, that the older men would not welcome the interference of a teenager and a heavily pregnant woman. For all his lapdog behavior, Wolsey truly worked in the interest of the crown, regardless of who was wielding the power. He might not have necessarily enjoyed it, but he still did as he was commanded.

"And the others?" Katherine said, sitting up again and pointing a finger at the letters left in Edmund's palm.

"Your Majesty, these are missives from the front...and a letter from the king for your eyes only," he replied, watching as the queen's face transformed from careworn to carefree in a matter of moments. All diplomacy that had pushed their marriage aside, Katherine truly loved Henry and craved nothing more in these long months of work and loneliness than his company. As he could not give her company, his letters had to suffice. They were her greatest respite and joy in the time of war.

Edmund wagered that Henry's letters to her were quite more tempered than the ones he received. His letters were usually blunt, meting out scenes of action and pursuit, calling forth images of charges, victorious chants and clashing swords. Sometimes they ended with a nod towards his gratefulness at assisting the queen in her regency, or with a wish for him to give Margaret a kiss in his name. But the tender words and endearments he saved for his wife.

Better that he did so, Edmund surmised. A soft-hearted king was not what the country needed. The council did not need to hear about woes of death in the field, or the violent charges of the French tearing his nerves to ribbons. Anthony's letters were littered with such; Edmund wondered if he would end up joining the ranks of courtly poets once he returned and finished his education.

About to explain the missives further, he was preempted by a shout and a crash in the hall. Placing a hand where his dagger would have been, he immediately moved to block the queen, who was likewise nervous and hauling herself up. An emissary appeared, mud-covered and frantic, blocked by the guard beyond the door. "Your Majesty, I bear tidings from the North!"

A stained letter was being waved frantically, a dirtied peace offering. Barely finding her voice, Katherine bade him to be let in. The guard, not fully pleased to do so, half-pushed the fellow in, causing him to collide hard with the floor.

"Explain yourself," Edmund demanded, snatching the letter from the man's hand and passing it off to Katherine. Both of them were breathing hard, one actually tired from his travels and the other breathing in rising fearfulness.

"I come at the behest of Lord Surrey. In keeping with his post of guarding the North, he was delivered this letter and told to forward it to Her Majesty the Queen. King James of Scotland has issued a declaration of war against His Majesty and against England, and means to invade no later than early September."

Katherine, who had already broken the letter's seals and was reading it, was growing paler by the minute. "It says here, Mister...?"

"Jennings, Your Majesty."

The queen nodded at him. "...Mister Jennings, that the king of Scotland is proposing to invade due to the unlawful murder of a warden of the East March."

Edmund snorted in derision. "Of course. Using his objections against England entering the Holy League against France would never do as an excuse."

It was true. For all of Hal's bluff and bluster about the intentions of the English, the Scottish king saw through it and had objected to the League from the beginning. The Northern country, long allied with France, was terrified of what England, Spain, and the majority of the Holy Roman Empire could do. And Henry, wishing to put their sister's husband's nose out of joint for even thinking of warning him off the invasion, had told the herald to mind his own business, and that he should instead honor the English alliance over the French. After all, Mary was their queen; choosing an enemy over their royal mistress's was quite a bad mistake to make.

Edmund grunted to himself. At least James had the chivalric decency to announce his invasion beforehand. This would buy them time for preparation, if they acted quickly.

"We must call an emergency meeting of the council," Katherine said through clenched teeth, trying to keep a hold on her composure. To Mister Jennings, she continued, "Return North, sir, as soon as can be. Tell my Lord of Surrey to muster men and arms, and to continue watching the border in the meantime. But first, go and feed yourself."

The gentleman nodded, attempting to rise from his obeisance but half stumbling as he did so. The queen stepped forward, flicking her fingers towards one of her attending ladies. A few coins transferred hands, Katherine thanking him for doing his duty. Edmund, snapping out of his furious thoughts, stepped forward to take Katherine's hand, guiding her out into the hallway. Having gone so often to the council rooms, they found their way there mostly by memory, as the enormity of the situation hit them both.

England was to be attacked, and the king was far away. There was no way for Henry to get back in time, even with a small contingent. The power in his line, in his crown, remained in his person, and he could not be there to defend his throne.

Edmund and Katherine were going to have to do it for him.

* * *

**A/N 2: **So Edmund will be getting a taste of war after all...in the next chapter. ;) See you all then.


	5. A Call to Arms

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing of _The Tudors_. That belongs to Showtime, Michael Hirst, etc. etc.

* * *

August 28th, 1513

"All is in readiness, Your Majesty. I will leave for the North of England at dawn."

Katherine's eyes, which had been riveted on the young man before her, flicked away to the wall, closing against the sudden onset of tears. It would not do for a queen to cry before a prince. But she had let him see that brief glimpse of pain, as a sister to a brother, before she locked it away. Other eyes were present, after all, waiting to see if either of them would break under the pressure. She could not give them the satisfaction.

"Come forward, then, and receive my blessing."

Edmund grimaced as he rose from kneeling before the queen. For a few short weeks, they had been preparing for the invasion by James, King of Scotland. Lord Surrey, Thomas Howard, had mustered his men in Surrey and Norfolk, as well as others from York and a contingent from Lincolnshire. Edmund, as Duke of Somerset, had called forth men from there and Cornwall, as was his right. Granted, these men were not the King's Army; few had ever seen action before. If he were to be honest with himself, he would note that most of them were most likely farmers. He certainly had retainers, but to fend off the Scottish army he would need more than those men. He was their leader, even if he was barely old enough to command them. Their training had taken much of the time, Edmund personally going out to the camps beyond London to see to their progress. Several of the older men had scoffed at the adolescent boy swaggering around like a soldier. Some would shake their heads as he observed the training maneuvers, especially when he would engage in them himself so he would have a better idea of what the action could be like. He did not seem strong enough to lift a lance, let alone engage the enemy in battle. His tutor, Master Horn, became his second in command; more sneers followed that, as how could a tutor be practically useful in war? No matter that the men were barely useful themselves; they'd expected a true leader, not the smallest son of the old king looking to prove himself.

Behind his back they said all this, of course, since he was the kin of the king, but they did deride him nonetheless. Grinding his teeth, Edmund did his duty to them, though he thought they were less appreciative of his efforts than they should have been. He was a Tudor; they could expect nothing less from him, no matter what his age.

Whatever time outside of training was left, Edmund threw himself into council meetings and attending on Katherine. They had planned to constrict the action to the North as much as could be, Surrey and Edmund's troops at the forefront, with an army to be led by Katherine coming after them as reserve forces. On this point, the queen was adamant; the daughter of Isabella of Spain refused to be left behind in London and unable to claim victory for her adopted country. Nothing, not concerns for her place as regent or the influences of outside forces upon her unborn child, could deter her. Not even an enticement to remain at Windsor, or better yet in the Tower, while allowing her men to go for her, would sway her.

"_I have seen battle before, gentlemen," _she would remind them of her upbringing._ "I was born on the field, in the dust and blood and suffering of men falling before the enemy. I am a child of war, sirs, and do not fear death upon the sword."_

The council did not outright accept her decision, but they did not refute it, either. The Queen, as regent, would do as she willed. She would go to war, and she would appoint her young brother-in-law to command his retainers for the emergency muster. Dispatches flew back and forth, out to France and up to the Scottish border, Henry's distracted thoughts penned quickly to his wife and brother. Henry's contrary nature scolded his brother for such impudence after he was specifically told he could not go to war and equally praised him for his actions as a military leader at fourteen years of age.

_To think my brother, the youngest of our family, should be destined to repel the forces of Scotland! Father Henry would be proud, Edmund, for your due diligence in this matter. If you are half as great a warrior as myself, then I know that soon enough James will soon be back in Edinburgh, cursing the day he ever thought to invade our precious kingdom and come against the Lord Somerset!_ Henry had scrawled hurriedly, on his way to lay siege to another town as the messenger had told Edmund upon delivery. As always, his missives had a sting mixed within the sweetness, and the youngest Tudor did note the hardly-subtle boast about the King's military prowess.

He thought of that letter as he moved forward towards Katherine, shrugging it off again as Henry simply being himself. Kneeling again, he kissed the queen's proffered hand, her grip tightening to prevent him from withdrawing too quickly. She rose, a bit unsteadily, out of her chair, using her free hand to cross the air over Edmund's bowed head before letting the fingers settle in his hair.

Katherine took a hard look at the young man, her brother-in-law. His light brown hair, cropped close, prickled against her hand. Raising him up, she found that she had to start looking up at him; he had grown so much in the last year! Nearly as tall as Henry, he was, but far too thin. Edmund was too young, she thought sadly, not quite able to fill out his armor just yet. She looked into the face of a boy, but the startling green eyes were already becoming those of a man's.

"I bless you, Edmund, my brother. And with God's blessing, take this as well."

She motioned backward, where Margaret was standing in half-shadow. The princess, her eyes rimmed with tears, kept her face stoic as she approached her sibling. In the morning, she and the queen would formally bid him farewell in the courtyard of the palace, but for now she could behave as though this were a private send-off. Dropping a small curtsey, she let her gaze slide over him. She had outright refused Edmund's participation from the outset, loudly moaning about how scattered her family already was without having Edmund being sent into the field. Her pleas, though, fell on deaf ears, and she disgracefully complied. Stepping closer, she did not say a word as she presented a folded cloth to him. The bolt of cloth, at the queen's nod, was partially unfurled, and Margaret was careful to not allow it to touch the floor. Edmund gasped, his eyes wide. The Banner of Saint Cuthbert, collected directly from the Cathedral in Durham, was the banner that had been carried into battle against Scotland before. It was grand, heralding victory in its very stitches. It was this banner that Edmund was to take into battle. Gingerly, he accepted the banner, fingers gliding smoothly over the ancient cloth as he folded it back up reverently.

As he continued to stare at the historic banner in his hands, Katherine continued, "We will follow you shortly to the North, with an army from the Midlands. Be safe on your journey, Brother Edmund."

Snapping out of his trance, he barely nodded his understanding to the queen. "I will be, Your Majesty."

Bowing low again, Edmund reached for Margaret, allowing himself to be crushed in her embrace.

"Come home safe," she whispered in his ear, arms wrapping tighter as she did so. "Come home alive."

For a moment, he just clung to his older sister, allowing himself to be the child he still was. He had wanted this so badly, wanted to go to war and prove himself as capable as their father, but it was still hard to say good-bye. No one could predict the outcome of the conflict, and for a minute he was terrified that this would be last time he would ever see Margaret, or Katherine.

Shoving the rebellious feelings sharply down, he forcibly dropped his arms, banner clutched in his right hand as he made a final bow to to the women of his house. He slowly withdrew from the queen's rooms, stone-faced to the courtiers filtering in the halls after the evening's feast. His send-off was a quieter affair, Wolsey deeming it an affront to His Majesty's greatness to celebrate his inability to return volleys with Scotland himself. Wine flowed freely, people ate heartily, but there were no toasts to victory or war.

Conversely, Edmund was glad to not have to pander to the crowds with a massive smile on his face. It was a solemn occasion, and he had thought so from the outset. No, he was content to receive quiet well-wishing and nods in his direction. Absently he greeted a few of the courtiers as he passed to his apartments, but he did not go out of his way to be overly friendly tonight. He endured the silence as he was readied for bed, his servants divesting him swiftly as though they sensed his need for solitude. After their perfunctory bows, they drifted away, and Edmund curled into the bedclothes, a pillow gathered to his chest.

Under the growing fear, still, was the excitement to do as his father and brother had done. In the morning, he would be off to war.

'_To war, to war, to war,'_ his mind chanted to him, a strange lullaby lulling him into sleep.

**xXxXxXx**

September 5th, 1513: Branxton, Northumberland

Thomas Howard, the younger, the Lord Admiral, waited at the front of the ranks. He was still relatively young, in his thirties, but he carried the air that he was years older in experience. He was a man all in black, sober and marked before his men. His armor, painted black, matched the horse's trappings, the Howard standard stenciled in red. The Somerset contingency was spotted coming up the southern road, and he was determined to meet them himself. His horse sidled briefly, impatient for the waiting to end. The soldiers behind him stirred in waves of curiosity and wonder, as the rumor that the King's brother, the Duke of Somerset and Cornwall, was at the head of the retainers. Howard glanced over at his father, his grizzled face twisting in momentary pain. His father did not match his color scheme; his armor gleamed, and the chain mail on his horse did, too, but he did not both with cloth trappings like his son. Unnecessary, he'd deemed it. The lord of Surrey was too old, really, to be involved in this conflict. If the man wasn't so determined to use this war against Scotland as a way of regaining the dukedom lost by his father, he would've cried this off, let his sons go without him. As it was, he was hell-bent to win this conflict for King and country...and to keep the Howards in good favor with King and country by doing so himself.

Thomas sighed, his dark eyes rolling at the thought. He wanted the honors and glory back as well, but he would rather have it done through _his_ offices, not his father's. After all, what would be the point of regaining the title when in a few years' time he would have to turn it over to his son anyway?

Soon enough, the banner of Saint Cuthbert and the herald of the Duke of Somerset rounded the bend in the road, causing the troops to cheer at the sight. The cheers grew louder when the duke's officers followed, and it turned uproarious when His Grace guided his horse after them. The mount he had chosen was a strong chestnut charger, its step sure as he moved before the crowds. Silver chain mail was tucked under a cover decorated with the Tudor arms. The duke himself was in highly polished silver armor, a green cloak around his shoulders. The boy, even tough he looked exhausted from traveling, smiled at the open praise, Tudor charm radiating from his being as he waved and saluted the men effortlessly.

Thomas could not help a small smirk from escaping. The boy was a Tudor alright, right down to his honest naivety. His Grace may act as though he was a fearless leader, but he had no idea what battle would really be like. The Lord Admiral truly wondered how the lad would fare once the battle was joined. Provided he did not run away in terror beforehand, that is. He schooled his expression carefully once the boy's avid green eyes turned forward again.

"Lord Surrey, my Lord Admiral! Well met!"

The two men bowed their heads in acknowledgment, nudging their horses forward to meet with the duke. Surrey and Thomas rode on either side of His Grace, a subtle action to keep the young royal covered in case of sudden enemy attack. Thomas was not overly worried about that; the King of Scotland was well in hand at Ford Castle and unwilling to move just yet.

"Your men seem well, my lords," Edmund commented, eyes flicking over the crowds. Thomas nodded automatically, but Lord Surrey was the one who spoke.

"Well enough, Your Grace, but they are more heartened to see you and your troops. We have been waiting some time for reinforcements."

Indeed, they had been waiting for a long time; not only did they need the time to train, the reinforcements that set forth from London were almost three days late.

The duke frowned at that, sensing a reprimand in the words. "A large host never moves fast, even at the best of times. And, my lord, I could not in good conscience send you farmers and farriers with no knowledge of war."

Since he was turned away from Thomas, he was able to risk inclining an eyebrow at that. Again, he marveled at the boy's impressive naïvety. It vanished smoothly, though, when the young boy's head swiveled in his direction.

"At least now they are farmers and farriers who can cut the Scots down to size."

Both Howards chuckled at that, not able to help themselves. And it was wise, too; giving the heir to the throne an air of collusion would do well for them.

"How many of these men have you brought, Your Grace?" Thomas asked as they wound their way through the encampment. Edmund's captains were directed to proceed to the west end of the camp and set up lodging there, with the understanding the duke would be along in two hours' time for inspection.

"At last count, we had around seven thousand, my lord. The Queen has three thousand in reserve troops. She has chosen to stay at Woburn Abbey in Bedfordshire until she is needed."

Surrey tilted his head to the left. "So it is true. The Queen did not heed the advice of her council and stay in London."

Edmund sighed and shrugged. "Indeed. When Her Majesty is determined to do something, she sees it through to the end, no matter what the cost."

Thomas shifted in his sidle. "Even if there is a great risk to her person?"

Though the duke was all limbs and skinniness and childlike under the armor, his eyes reflected a shrewd understanding. "She does not think it risky in the slightest. She believes it is her duty, and she would not shirk her duty to the king. Or to the future Prince of Wales."

The cavalcade halted before a grand marquis, set up as the battle headquarters. Swiftly dismounting, the three entered the large tent, stepping on good carpets and guiding the duke to a table littered with maps and other sheets of parchment.

"And what is your strength, my lords?" the duke queried, decidedly changing the subject. The two Howards looked to one another, the elder shaking his head discreetly at the younger one's unwise words earlier.

"Your Grace, we have a total of twelve thousand men at arms, ready and waiting. Perhaps a little over."

The duke's eyebrows raised. Approximately twenty thousand men, then. Over that, if they would need the reserves. Assorted archers, gunners, and foot soldiers armed with bills. Edmund took a long look at a stack of the hooked pikes to his left, grimacing at the thought of using one. It would be brutal, he couldn't mistake that.

The boy studied the maps intently, noticing an X marked over Ford Castle, where King James was stationed. He swallowed, a little afraid to ask. "And how many men does Scotland have?"

Thomas cut in, "Lady Heron has informed me that their strength lies around thirty thousand, my lord duke."

Edmund blanched outright then, but maintained his composure otherwise. "Last I heard she was entertaining the king, not acting as a spy."

Thomas grinned sharply, almost snickering. "And entertaining him well enough that he has no idea she's reporting to me."

"It stands to reason," Edmund murmured, turning back to the map. "Having been James's prisoner before, she should have no love for him."

"Definitely an advantage, Your Grace."

The boy nodded gratefully. "One I will happily take."

The conversation turned to the amount of cannon supplied to the army, what Scotland's forces were guesstimated to have. As the other lords moved into the marquis, they began to discuss strategy. It would be likely, should James choose to meet them outside of Branxton, he would take the advantage of higher ground, since a portion of the fields were amongst hills. It would benefit them, Lord Surrey said, to occupy the lower ground just below cannon range. The guns were difficult enough to move, much less fire, and it was likely that were they settled, they wouldn't be maneuvered again. Thomas watched Edmund throughout the exchange, noting that he was keeping up well enough, offering an opinion or two when prompted, but mainly just absorbing information. The son of Surrey sighed under his breath; he had been raised in a hard world, sent his formative years as the son of a battle-hardened man, just like the duke of Somerset. However, Lord Surrey was determined to have his son engage in those practices, unlike this last son of Henry VII. Edmund was trained in swordplay and jousting, but those mock fights would be nothing compared to the awful reality just around the corner. He was gently born, gently bred, living in a time of peace. And given how pale the lad looked during the entirety of the meeting, he was already shocked by the enormity of what he was getting into now.

Thomas smelled fear on the boy, and it made him groan inwardly. There was no place for fear in the forces of England.

He just hoped Edmund would learn that before it was too late.

* * *

**A/N: **Here is the second half of the interminably long chapter, recently finished. Why only recently? Why, because I got stuck, then I watch _Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King_, watched the epic fighting, and knew I had to finish this to get to the next chapter, which has the battle itself.  
What I do know about the Battle of Flodden Field was gleaned from Internet sites, like Wikipedia, and from _The Six Wives of Henry VIII_ by Alison Weir. Lady Heron's motivations behind entertaining the King of Scotland are my own invention.  
Oh boy, things are going to get intense and real very quickly...and I mean _very_ quickly.

Also, check out my profile...I have a poll concerning this story up, and I would appreciate some input. Thank you!


	6. A Field Called Flodden

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing of _The Tudors_. That belongs to Showtime, Michael Hirst, etc. etc.

* * *

September 9th, 1513: Flodden Field, Outside Branxton

Edmund stood in his tent, still save for the shaking in his hands. His squire was bustling about, grappling with his chest plate for a moment before strapping it on the duke. Neither spoke; in fact, save for the pressing of hands and cool metal to his limbs, Edmund was hardly aware of anyone else in the space with him. For this was the day, formally chosen by the King of Scotland, for the armies to meet. The Scottish troops had arrived a day ago, a herald sent on ahead to the English camp declaring His Majesty James's intentions. Between noon and three o'clock, he would attack. At the time, Edmund had coolly nodded like the other lords, calling for Master Horn and directing him to tell the men to prepare for battle the next day. But now. . .he felt a gnawing ache grip his belly. This was it, today was the day. He would be his father's son, a warrior for the house of Tudor. He would lead his men, watch for victory, watch for. . .his men dying, men being slaughtered, watch heads and limbs fly freely as the savage Scots ran them to ground and. . .

Waving away his manservant, Edmund barely had time to get to the bucket before he started retching. Not having eaten much that morning, he was thankful that his expulsions did not last long. A cup of ale was poured for him, pressed into his hand when he was finished. The first sip was swished around his mouth to get the vile taste out before being spat into the bucket with the other leavings. The rest was consumed slowly, as the duke of Somerset stayed seated on the ground.

He had wanted this, wanted to be here so badly. . .but he did not imagine how alone he would be. Certainly he had Master Horn to rely on, and the Howards were loyal to the crown at least, but the reality was quite different from his daydreams. When he went off to war in his dreams, Anthony and William were by his side, stern warriors following their captain. And Henry. . .Henry would be there, too, as it would be fitting for the two Tudor men to claim victory together. The enemy would be easily defeated, bowing before the majesty of King Henry, and Edmund, Prince of England.

He shook his head, waving away those false hopes. None of it was what he'd dreamed about, none of it was what he had hoped it would be.

But he was still there, and he still needed to do his duty for his country, his king, and his family. Shakily, he started to rise, the manservant rushing forward to help him up again as the armor was quite heavy, even if it wasn't fully assembled yet.

He had to do this, for Hal, for England.

**xXxXxXx**

At eleven o'clock, he mounted his steed, sword strapped to his side and a tunic with the Tudor rose over his breastplate. His mind foggy, he barely managed a greeting to the other lords, allowing himself to be guided by Thomas Howard to their place behind the vanguard. Surrey, in a last desperate gamble, took his man towards the north, to prevent escape if the Scots decided to turn tail and run in the middle of it. Little was spoken off, save for clipped commands for the men to keep ready.

And then, they waited.

Waited, watching breathlessly, teetering on the knife's edge.

And then. . .

And then, in the midday haze, they appeared. The banner of the king of Scotland was hosted high, the ringing sound of their armor reached their ears, and the shine of the sun burned Edmund's eyes. A lone rider, the king's herald, charged forward on his horse and waving to get their attention.

Lord Darcy, the noble at his left, groaned audibly. "What the devil does he want _now_?"

Edmund's lips thinned. He too wished to hear no more about what James wanted and just wanted to get it over with. But he gave the signal to allow the portly herald to pass through the ranks to them. The herald, Hawley, looked curiously at the formations, physically shrugging to himself before he looked down the line. "My Lord Admiral?"

Thomas Howard, jaw clenching for a moment, raised a hand to get the man's attention. "Yes, Mister Hawley?"

"The king of Scotland wishes to know how you will answer the charges laid against you, before he takes the field."

Every Englishman in the vicinity ground his teeth at the Scotsman's presumption. Edmund's wary eyes flashed at the older gentleman. A day after Lord Surrey agreed to James's parameters concerning battle, a missive had arrived for Thomas Howard, accusing him of deliberately murdering a Scottish captain several months ago. In no uncertain terms, the Scottish king wanted him to meet the charges, preferably on the field. Having given no message at the time, the English nobility speculated as to what he would do. Every eye turned in his direction as Thomas lifted the reins of his horse, cantering past the herald without saying a word. Thinking that was the end of the matter, it was a surprise when moments later, Thomas returned on foot, sword in hand and a burning fever in his face. Hawley reeled back, even though he was seated above the other man.

"Tell His..._Majesty_," Thomas sneered, as though giving James an honorific was more than he deserved, "that I choose trial by combat, and to hell with him!"

The herald sputtered in ill-concealed rage, but Edmund and the other Englishman loudly applauded Thomas's defiance. With a mocking bow, Howard extended his hand back towards the Scottish lines, indicating he should take his leave. Seething, the bigger fellow spurred his mount forward, a few expletives thrown over his shoulder. Edmund brought his own horse forward, looking down at Thomas with concern.

"My lord, are you sure—"

The chilling sweep Thomas sent his way called to mind icy winds blasting over his body. "Do not question my decision, my lord duke. I know my business."

Edmund raised an eyebrow, his face becoming blotchy red. Ignoring the blatant disrespect, he muttered, "Do as you will, then, sir. And good luck to you."

With that, he directed his horse over to his own lines, shouting encouragement to his men before returning to the other lords. Stationing himself again, he noticed something for the first time about the position of the Scottish forces. The king, in his imperial red tunic and blinding armor, along with his commanding nobles, was at the front of the lines. Edmund had learned, long ago, that warfare was enacted with the commanders stationing themselves behind the guard. How James was positioned was. . .ludicrous. The duke squinted at them, hands clutching the reins.

"What is it, Your Grace?" Lord Darcy asked, cool gray eyes assessing the young man. Like Howard, he was in his thirties, but had a patron-like air about him at all times. Edmund had taken a liking to him when they met at the camp, his kindly attention reminding him of his first tutor, Master Jones. Fatherly, pleasant, but with a keen mind behind it all. He was chosen to watch over the duke, to keep him out of danger, but he had such a pleasant way about him that Edmund did not resent him his role.

"Darcy, do you not think it strange for King James to be in the front lines?"

Following his train of thought, Darcy chuckled. "It seems the Scots are not educated in the new formations of European warfare. He favors the old ways, charging headlong into battle with little regard to himself."

Edmund, despite his earlier fright, found himself coldly pleased with this development. "How unfortunate for him, then."

Suddenly, a blasting horn broke the calm of the valley, ragged cries rising from the throats of the Scots just before the front guard, king included, dashed heedlessly down the hill. Simultaneously, cannon roared to life, balls rushing through the air. Spooked briefly, Edmund got his horse under control and sucked in a breath before echoing the English lords' call.

"Charge! For England!"

"For England!"

The army sprang forward, bills waving in hand as they rushed to meet the enemy. The sickening crunch of metal bodies colliding erupted, followed shortly by shrieks and furious wails. The first blood was drawn, the men surging with intensity once the first man was felled. From the vantage point of the English, they could see the enemy king, parrying and thrusting, at ease with his surrounding as if he'd gone a-Maying. English cannon fired back at the Scottish, grazing the hill far better than the Scottish cannon was. Howard men, Somerset men, Darcy men slashed, hacked, and stuck as smoothly as their northern counterparts, bills hooking and disemboweling where the pikes thrust and twisted. Edmund vainly watch for Thomas Howard, but could not see him in melee. He could only pray his ally would come out alive, if nothing else.

"Archers, ready, and. . .fire!" a voice hollered down the line.

Arrows, slicing through the air and peppering opponents, were released in quick succession. James, though, was resolute. He took no notice the blast of cannon or the arrow lodging into the Scottish laird to his immediate right. His broadsword swept left and right, cutting down many in his path. He was making it seem like a simple thing to destroy Englishmen. He was cutting a swath through them, moving ever so slowly forward. With startling clarity, Edmund saw the king lift his head in his direction, looking for something. The king pointed at his banner, the Tudor banner, making a slicing motion with his weapon. The undeniable blood lust in the monarch's form was unbelievable to the young duke, but he kept his seat and his composure. Several gazes slid down the line to him, some whispers flying around. It was just as well, since he could not hear them over the screams. . .or over his dread. It was one thing to know he, as Tudor heir, would be the recipient of death threats. It was quite another to receive one openly, by one's brother-in-law no less.

"So much for familial loyalty," he grumbled under his breath, keeping his gaze focused on the soldiers and disregarding the lords staring at him. Pressing a palm to his forehead, he shook off his oncoming light-headedness and focused on the graceless king. If there ever was a time for Edmund to curse his own father, it was now. How could he ever have agreed to marry Mary to this murderous wretch?

"Incoming!" yelled a soldier, suddenly laying hands on his prince and jerking Edmund sharply off his horse. Tumbling into the dirt, the volley of arrows had missed their mark narrowly. As some of the projectiles buried themselves in the ground just beyond him, his mind seized on one thought. '_I almost died. I almost died, and didn't see it coming. I almost died. . .'_

Sharply he was pulled back onto his feet. Tongue tied, Edmund nodded his thanks to his savior's back, since the man disappeared within the ranks again.

Darcy, who had dismounted himself as to not be impaled, brushed the boy off and dragged him down behind the guardsmen. "That volley came dreadfully close, Your Grace."

"True enough, my lord." Edmund, shaken, licked his dry lips. "Close call indeed."

Darcy smirked, brushing off the last of the grass and dirt. The boy's lips twitched in a semblance of humor, before another thought struck him. "My horse, Thunder, is he—?"

"Caught some in his flank, and was last seen rushing back to the encampment."

Edmund's face went pale, and he staggered as he pictured his poor animal being wounded. He wanted to follow his steed, run back to the encampment, wanted to bury his head under a pillow and hide from this battle. He wanted, in that moment, to run all the way back to London, duck under his bed and wait for the storm to pass.

"And you?"

"Dodged a few strays, mostly just dirtied up, Your Grace."

The quivering child inside him reared its mulish head, decrying his past nonsense, begging him to take to his feet and flee. But he repressed that churlishness, covering it with a thick layer of righteous fury. There were Scotsmen, sneaky bastards, taking shots at him. And only after James had spotted his banner in the fight. They had waited, to make sure they would not miss the mark. And they'd almost killed a good man for no other reason than for being too close.

And Thomas Howard, where was he but in the fray himself simply because James called him out?

He'd almost died. . .his comrades were dying. . .it could've been anyone under the rose. Margaret, Katherine, Henry. . .

He was young, an easy target. He was a boy, not a man to be lamented if he was a casualty. He was a trophy for the Scottish, and James would proudly carry his tunic or even his head on a pike in a show of triumph. In truth, nobody wanted a fourteen-year-old boy in Flodden to make believe at being a man; nobody wanted him here, and nobody thought he was able to fight as well as any other man. But a grown man, a _king_, had issued a boy a direct challenge. And that was not something any hot-blooded male, especially a Tudor, would let lie.

_'He wants blood,'_ Edmund said to himself, hand on his hilt, '_I'll give him blood.'_

Until his dying day, Edmund could not answer why he did it, or even when he gave the command. He did not know when he shook off Darcy, his watcher, or how he convinced Master Horn to do as he said. He attributed it to the fact that as the Duke of Somerset and a Prince of England, he was to be obeyed. But in a trice, the duke before his own lines, raising his sword to the sky. Bewildered, the men of Somerset and Cornwall stared at the duke, his youthful face outraged and voice cracking in a war cry.

"For God, for England, and for the Tudors! A Tudor!"

Sparking with his charge, the men called back, "A Tudor!"

From there, time began to slow and blur, and yet rippled by so quickly, Edmund could not note how much had passed. His legs pumped, taking him into the onslaught. His hands moved, sword swinging and biting into the nameless faces of Scottish foes. His arms tightened, sustaining a deep slash but still maintaining his stance. His head swiveled, constantly turning to find more and more opponents in his way. A flash of black; he'd found Thomas Howard, a long cut along his jaw and a bruise blossoming over his eye. A blotch of red; James saw the Tudor rose, and began to stalk to his prey. Edmund watched him come, deflecting his previous opponent onto another so as to meet his deadly kin. Silver and blue darted behind His Majesty, Darcy managing to dog Edmund's steps into the battle and seeing the enemy making to attack. James swung first, determined experience out to meet reckless youth. Parry, parry, thrust, disengage. He slashed hard to the right, missing his target. The sword was knocked away, Edmund was kicked to the ground. As the king moved to deliver his death stroke, Edmund felt in the slick grass for a weapon. An arrow came to hand. Lord Darcy rolled to dodge an ax, a bill dropped by a dying soldier beside him.

In three seconds, the world seemed to stop, the trio frozen in a tableau of death and promised retribution. Darcy, with his captured bill poised at the king's exposed shoulder, James with his sword angled to catch the sun's ray on the bits not splashed with blood, Edmund with his arrow clutched tightly and his free hand raised to stop the king's blow.

And then. . .time snapped.

Bill sunk into his back, a strangled snarl of pain was cut off by an arrow piercing the throat, and James fell.

And Edmund, startled at the sight of blood streaming out his brother-in-law's neck, was hustled through the crowds, an insistent Darcy shoving him out of harm's way. Somehow shielded by the rushing troops of Englishmen, the two commanders find their way back to the vanguard, back to the other lords, the lot of them shocked at the duke's actions.

He could not see them, though. He never saw the end of the battle, never saw the ruinous defeat of the Scottish at English hands, never saw the retreat driven into Surrey's waiting lines. All he would remember seeing was the shimmering ruby blood of a king on his hands in the afternoon sun.

* * *

**A/N: **Holy. . .fudge monkeys. Two chapters, one day. And let me tell you, the battle was not originally supposed to be so intense for Edmund. He was going to actually be a whiny ass, sitting behind the guard but disgusted by the gore. But then James took pot shots at him, and I ended up going from there.  
There are conflicting stories about what Thomas Howard actually did in the Battle of Flodden Field. One claims that he led a charge of his own men as a form of trial by combat, another says that he stayed behind the guard in the Renaissance style, like most European war leaders were doing in the time period. And while they were doing that, the Scots did indeed charge in a medieval style, apparently. According to one resource that is. It's why the Scots lost so many members of the nobility that day; they were all on the front lines, like James himself.  
And I know, many of you are thinking, "A fourteen-year-old boy just charged into battle and killed a guy?! What is up with that?"  
All I can say is, standards were different then, and young children in battle is not entirely out of the realm of possibility, no matter what the times. In the War for Independence, boys were lying about their age to fight for the Colonies. Some listed as sixteen or seventeen when they were actually closer to fourteen or fifteen. And sometimes they were pressed into service no matter what their age. So it did not seem impossible to me that a fourteen-year-old boy, a Tudor boy, to throw himself into the fray. Especially when he was threatened and especially since he was educated to fight since at least the age of five or six. Yeah, they started the bloodthirsty little buggers young in families that could afford the tutelage.  
You can all thank the battle scenes in _Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King_ for this chapter getting pumped out as swiftly as it did. Seriously, watching that really helped, seeing as how no battles like this are staged where I live unless it's for a Shakespeare play, and even then it's not always involving armor and swords and all that.

Also, check out my profile...I have a poll concerning this story up, and I would appreciate some input. Thank you!


	7. Forgiveness

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing of _The Tudors_. That belongs to Showtime, Michael Hirst, etc. etc.

* * *

October 7th, 1513

He did not note her approach, but he had heard her all the same. It was hard to miss the clipping steps as they echoed off the cavernous roof of the chapel, no matter how lightly she stepped. Slowly, he turned his head, bowing it reverently as she approached his pew.

"My lord Somerset, there you are," Katherine murmured, a hand braced along the back of the bench as she paused there. "I had wondered where you were."

Edmund nodded, face creased with concern. "I did not intend to worry you overmuch, Majesty."

She shrugged, maneuvering her swollen belly carefully as she sat next to him. "You decline to meet with the council, you shun the court itself. How else am I to meet with my fellow adviser and brother, but to find him where he lurks?"

It was true. When they had returned to London and the court, the once cheerful duke had withdrawn to his chambers, coming out only for Mass, dinners, and occasional hunts which he took no joy in. Where he once had greeted his acquaintances with aplomb, he would only nod, his lips creased in a frown that marred his brow. The Duke of Somerset was becoming uncommonly quiet, green eyes haunted by things no one else could see. And that terror that lurked below the surface frightened Katherine, made her wonder what was becoming of Edmund.

The young man bowed his head, staring at his hands. It was a familiar movement, one that he had acquired at the beginning of September. In unguarded moments, sometimes one would catch him rubbing them together, as if to rid himself of a foul substance that only he knew about. His hands, though, were not of concern to Katherine. What concerned her was the flash of horror that crossed his face when turned in profile.

"My queen would not begrudge me solace when I seek it, I hope?" he whispered, raising his eyes upwards to take in the cross hanging above the altar.

Upon the manner of the King of Scotland's death, he had remained silent. An older man, a proud man, would have proclaimed his victory over such a thing, but Edmund could not. He was sick at heart at what he had done. No matter that he had only done so to preserve his life, no matter that his intention was to answer the king when he called him out to battle. Never did he think he would actually kill him. Edmund had killed James, a brother-in-law, a monarch anointed with holy oil and by God. Instead, he demurred, claiming an anonymous soldier had brought him down. Darcy, for his own reasons, merely claimed that he had found the fallen king's body, thus making himself the bane of Scotland's existence for the discovery.

And when they arrived at Katherine's camp, James's bloody surcoat in hand, it took all of Edmund's willpower to not vomit when he handed it to the queen. Ecstatic, she had hoisted it in victory before her reserve troops, claiming it was a great day in English history and how pleased Henry would be to receive it. The blooming blood that encrusted the neckline and shoulder were imprinted in his mind, staying there during the festivities in camp and in court. He would think of it, and then turn to his sister Mary. What would she think of this, a dead husband and a lost country, all because of her youngest brother? He had made her a widow, and she would never know.

And every day since his return, he had gone down on his knees in chapel, turning to God for salvation and grace. Only he, his confessor, and God would know the full truth. Lord Darcy had returned to his great house, Templehurst, determined to be in the solitude of the country. He would not confess to a great sin such as Edmund's; if the king's heir did not wish to claim his conquest publicly, then he would not do so himself. Thomas Howard, though close in the fray, saw nothing but their backs when they hurried away from the lines. Indeed, it seemed that all of the English army, all of Edmund's men, had grown blind to what the lord Somerset had done.

Perhaps he should have been grateful for that. The burden, though, was so much to bear. His penance, his mind, his soul ate at him. His only peace was in to be in God's presence in the church. Edmund, unlike Henry, had not been marked for a life of clerical duties before Arthur's death, nor was he pushed in that direction afterward. If he had been, he wondered silently, would he have been forgiven for his hateful crime? Would that have prevented him from going to war in the first place?

"Are you still not sleeping, Edmund?" Katherine asked in a hushed tone, bringing him out of his thoughts. He sighed, not even deigning to ask how she'd known. It seemed that somebody was reporting to her all his movements, though if he were honest with himself, he knew he was not looking particularly hale and hearty as he once did.

"There is no peace in sleep, Your Majesty. My dreams…in my dreams, I find only…" he trailed off, swallowing against the fear climbing into his throat.

"What, my lord?"

In all her life, Katherine had never seen a more desolate and horrified look on so young a face as the one Edmund turned to her. The child within her stirred, almost in sympathy.

"I see death, and the burning fires of hell, licking at my heels," he told her this calmly, so calmly that it beggared belief. "Men fall before me, blood spurting from throats and demons carrying them away. I see nothing but pain and torment. And through it all, I can do nothing. I can only watch, and wait for the dream to end, knowing that it will be waiting for me the next time I sleep."

To say he had taken it hard was an understatement, but Katherine was shocked at his confession. "Mother of God…"

He only nodded. "Katherine, I say this now: I have seen things, I have done…something…that I will never be proud of at Flodden. I have blood on my hands, and I knew full well that I went out to do what I did. I just did not think…that's it, really. I did not think, and so have damaged my soul."

He stared at Jesus, hanging in his pain on the cross, the removal all sin captured in the image. He wondered if God had taken fratricide into account. A long moment stretched between the queen and the duke, both of them absorbing the gruesome undertones of his speech. And then, most tenderly, Edmund felt the queen's hand touch his shoulder, slide down his back. Rubbing his back consolingly, she also looked upon the suspended cross above the altar.

"When I was a small girl, I was present at the battle for Grenada," she murmured, continuing her ministrations. "A child, watching hundreds of men fall, watched the soil of Spain turn muddy brown and become carved by rivers of blood. A knight, only forty feet away from the building in which I hid with my sisters, was pierced in the eye with an arrow. Death and destruction all around us and I could do nothing but sit and watch, and pray. And then, as suddenly as it began, the fighting stopped. The armies fell quiet, the city became ours, and the dead could be buried.

"They would not stay buried for me, though. Even though I was so young, I knew that those men had died in our cause, died for my family and for me. I felt I did not deserve such tribute, and so prayed for their forgiveness and for God's. For months I did this, every Mass I went to I did this. And then one day, I realized something."

Edmund stared at her, unable to turn away. "What was that, my lady?"

The light in her eyes shone fiercely as she said, "That those men lived and died for their faith, and their country and king, and I did not need their forgiveness. God showed me that I had to forgive myself. It is in His hands, Edmund, and a truly contrite heart will be healed by Him, as long as you understand that. Any sin, once brought to God, can be forgiven."

The duke blinked, some tears threatening to spill. "Even if the sin is monstrous?"

She nodded. "You are never without God's love, and never beyond His forgiveness. He is there through all."

He had been raised in the faith, had been raised to love and fear God, but Edmund had been shaken by the actions of his own two hands. It was hard to remember something that simple. And he felt a fool for it. "I feel I shall carry this guilt for the rest of my life, no matter if God forgives me."

"Perhaps it will serve as a reminder then, about the dangers of war, and to trust to God no matter the outcome," she suggested, moving to take his hands in hers. "Having a soul such as yours, that smarts when you know you have done wrong, is better than one who sins and revels in that sin."

Clutching her fingers tightly, he tilted his head to the side. "Perhaps."

Katherine smiled then, encouraging him to mimic the expression. Only able to lift one corner of his mouth, she seemed satisfied enough with his response. With that, the queen crossed herself, relying on her brother-in-law's trembling hands to steady her as she rose. Sidestepping out of the pew, she waited at the end of it. Edmund looked from her to the cross once more. God would forgive him, and maybe one day he could forgive himself.

At the very least, he could forgive himself long enough to leave the chapel with the queen for the day. Copying her gesture, he bowed in the direction of the font once he exited the pew, and held out his arm for her after she curtsied to it as well. Side by side, they exited the church, a sort of peace clinging to them both. He sunk himself into it, able to walk through the court for the first time in weeks with his head held high. For Katherine's part, she maintained her expression of pleasant aloofness, being the queen she was always meant to be. The whispers started to swirl, the bodies made obeisance, and life, such as it was, appeared to be reordering itself around Edmund.

Then, suddenly, the queen faltered in her step. Her hand, resting lightly on his arm, gripped him hard enough to bruise. Sharply turning his head, he watched as her face grew pale and sweat dotted her brow. She looked as though she were about to faint.

"Katherine?" he queried, stopping in his tracks as she tripped over her own feet. A cry rose up from her throat, her free hand clutching her belly. Her knees buckled, and her ladies surged forward to help catch her. The courtiers around them stirred, gasping at the queen's weakness. Edmund threw her arm around his shoulders, and he immediately pivoted in the direction of her chambers. "Make way! Her Majesty is unwell!"

Katherine's screams had climbed an octave by the time they had returned to her bedchamber. Ordering someone to fetch the doctor, Edmund propped her up with pillows, watching in disgusted fascination as she reach under her skirts and withdrew a bloody hand. He gulped, fresh horror dawning on everyone present. Sweet sister Katherine was losing the baby.

**xXxXxXx**

Edmund, duke of Somerset, stared down into the cradle. Not three hours after the royal physician was fetched and he was shunted out of his sister-in-law's rooms, she had been delivered of a son. Picking up his nephew, he released a torrent of tears he'd been holding in all day. This was the son of his brother. A Prince of Wales for England.

Or he would have been, had he not come too early. The child had been caught on his way out, barely able to breathe once the queen finally pushed him into the world. The horrid panting subsided, allowing the duke to at least enter the outer chamber. There he stayed as the doctor attended Her Majesty behind drawn curtains, tutting at the loss of blood and mixing her concoctions to revive her spirits and health. In the end, the furrowed brow of the older man was creased with sorrow as he handed her a tincture of poppies, forcing her to stop her weeping at the lost child. Katherine was asleep in a matter of minutes, exhaustion and mourning aiding the process. He had lived only a few hours, this boy, too short of a time to even give him a proper name. The little bundle, so light and fragile in his arms, would never live, never draw in the air of his country. He would never rule, and he would never even meet his father. Henry was still trapped in France, in Tournai. His victory there, where he had recently taken Mass and knighted men for their valor and duty, would be tainted by this bad news.

Placing the child back in its glorious cradle, carved and painted with the royal arms, made him cringe. It had been waiting for the arrival of a prince, but no one could have predicted the child only being able to use it for a day at most. Swiping his cheeks, Edmund shuffled out of the rooms, unconscious of the wearied bows and curtsies from the lords and ladies waiting in the corridor. Retreating to his own apartments, he went straight to his prie-dieu, kneeling and closing his eyes. This time, he was not praying silently for himself. This time, he prayed for England, and his queen.

Three children in four years, gone. Two of Henry's sons were now dead, one freshly buried and another on his way to the grave. And every year, every month, Katherine became a little more unsteady, a little more frightened. Though Edmund had not seen her fear before, he had seen his brother's temper fray just a bit more with each loss. For a lusty young king intent on having half a dozen sons in the nursery before he achieved the tenth year of his reign, each child's death was doubly bitter. For not only did he lose a child, he lost faith in his choice of bride. And the loss of sons made it that much worse. For what good was military success, what good was any success for England, if the king did not have a son to give it to? Though he had Edmund, he was still Henry, and a man. His virility could not be in question, even if he had no reason to fear the Tudor line extinguishing after his death, unlikely though it seemed. Katherine was a good woman, a queen for the people and a servant of God, and nobody denied that fact. But Edmund knew his brother would be displeased with her inability to carry to full term, and the truth was he may be more inclined to show it now. And so Edmund prayed for the strength not only to get out of the quagmire, but the will to survive the storm that threatened to swamp them all in misery.

For though God could forgive those who displeased Him, Henry came with no such guarantee.

* * *

**A/N: **This chapter...this is not my favorite chapter. It was so tough to write; I'm not terribly great with angst, and I have no real understanding of the guilt that could come with killing in self-defense. Especially since Edmund was raised with a healthy appreciation of combat, but had never experienced it beforehand. And now Katherine loses her child...ugh, it was just a hard chapter to get through. I just hope it didn't put any of you off.  
In any case, stay tuned for the next chapter, in which Henry returns from France, descending from glory into discord. Oh, boy...until next time!

Also, like I stated in the last two chapters: I have poll up on my page, concerning Edmund. I would appreciate it if you would take the time to vote. Thank you.


	8. The Storm Breaks

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing of _The Tudors_. That belongs to Showtime, Michael Hirst, etc. etc.

* * *

November 2nd, 1513

"Your Grace, His Majesty commands you to meet him in his presence chamber," the messenger remarked, after bowing to the King's brother. He'd found the young man in repose, a book balanced carefully in his hands as he sat in a sit by the bank of windows in his sitting room. Across the room, Sir Anthony Browne, newly knighted for his chivalry at Tournai, and Mister William Gage were ensconced at the chessboard. They paused in their mock battle to turn their eyes to their solitary friend. Edmund, the lord Somerset, was slow to raise his eyes from the tome, but it was clear that he had at least heard the message. The duke, though his eyes flashed with worry, kept his face schooled in a mask of passive agreement.

"When does the King expect me to attend on him?" he asked, obviously stalling. In the messenger's prone form, Edmund could see his hands twitch and his eyes widen slightly in fear. The fellow had to be new to his post, the black and red livery on him ill-fitting as he tugged on his sleeves behind his back.

"Immediately, Your Grace."

Biting back a sigh, Edmund wearily bent the page of his book to mark his place before shutting it. "Then I will go."

Nodding to his companions, he rose from his seat and waved for them to come along. Quickly abandoning the board, William and Anthony followed, carefully to be a full step behind as to show regards to rank. However, they remained close enough to comment to one another as they followed their royal friend.

Ever since their return to England, they had resumed their studies with him, and in turn had found themselves to be almost always in his presence. Just as they had been marked by their experience with war, so too did they find Edmund changed. All together they moved as one form, one hardly ever being found without the other two now. The bloodshed, the carnage that haunted their dreams, they could see reflected in one another's eyes. But for William and Anthony, they had been able to rely upon each other on the field. What they had found with Edmund, they could not begin to empathize. But even so, the foray into war had marked them all severely; Anthony himself wagered that they would never be the same. William, for one, began to show a propensity for seriousness and cunning that was previously unknown. And Edmund...well, confessing to Katherine and to his friends when the time came lessened his pain. It did not leave him, but it was an easier load to carry when in his friends' presence. In a way, it was like a way of regaining who they once were, going to the schoolroom or playing tennis together when they had the opportunity. But a tipped red wine, a misplaced thrust in combat training, a broken lance could force one or the other into a reverie, into their minds. Edmund would rub his hands together. Anthony tugged on his ear. William felt his leg twitch out of control. And then, it was as if their childhood was a distant memory.

The children they had been no longer existed. Three marked young men stood in their place, three young men who looked to one another for support. And one of them could not be without his support right at that moment.

"I wonder what the King wants with you," Anthony whispered, hovering close at Edmund's left elbow. Discreetly he flicked a glance at the duke, noting his lips turning down into a frown. William coughed, edging closer to add his own whisper.

"His Majesty has not been pleased since his return home. Wolsey has been trying his hardest to cover the expenses of the war, but the effort has drained the treasury. The council has been speculating how best to achieve peace with France so as to avoid a return to battle in the summer."

Edmund chuckled humorlessly; Master Gage always had information, that much had remained the same. "News of that degree will not sit well with Hal."

William nodded. "Especially since it comes on the heels of the death of his latest child."

The young duke felt his eyes close briefly, remembering that horrid day. More blood on his conscience, he felt, blood that blossomed onto Katherine's skirts this time instead of in his own palms. The day after the Queen's ill-fated delivery, he sat at his writing desk, hours spent composing the words to convey the message that another prince of Her Majesty's body was too early born and died. Perhaps it did not matter what words he settled on; when his letter reached Henry, the returned servant reported that the King's face blanched and then grew mottled with contained fury. A curt dismissal and no return message forced the poor man to leave the camp with no idea of how the King truly felt. And when he came back to court at the end of October, Henry greeted his wife with the calm civility of a noble man returning to the bosom of his family. The fact that had treated her only with civility in the days thereafter was the only indication of how Henry was feeling about anything. The coldness in his blue eyes was unreadable, and did not diminish even when he greeted his brother and sister. Before all the court, he dismissed his family promptly, wife included. There was no celebration to be had, he had declared, as they were to be in mourning for the lost boy, and it would be best for all to return to their rooms for reflection and prayer. He stared at Her Majesty specifically when he stated this, sweeping away as they acquiesced to his requests.

And Katherine, still wilting from her debilitating pregnancy and miscarriage, was forced to hang her head and bite her tongue, tears forming in her eyes but never dripping down her face as she bent the knee to her husband.

All the hurt and fury was compacting together, and no one knew who the King would unleash it upon. The court was on tenterhooks, all watching and waiting like hawks perched and ready to swoop down on their prey.

"I'm sure Wolsey will find a way to divert the King," Edmund supplied, grinding his teeth on his words. The priest, with his watchful eyes and his deceptive humble air was surprisingly adept at keeping Hal on course. Thomas Wolsey had a knack for handling his affairs and predicting the King's reactions to those problems that nettled him daily; he was perhaps the only man in the world who knew how best to handle Henry. And it vexed Edmund greatly that his brother, the head of his country, could so easily be turned by the older man. "He's very good at it."

"Some say too good, my lord."

Edmund pitched his tone even lower as they rounded the corner to the great hall before his brother's chambers. "He bears watching, then."

"And...cultivating?" Anthony hazarded, eyebrows raised. Edmund glanced around, noticing how rigid the men's bodies were when they bowed to him, and the stiffness in the women's curtsies. Their path had been cleared yards ahead of them as they passed, with the courtiers giving the young men and the following sentries a bulk of several feet to the sides. The tension was so thick in the room it nearly made him choke as he acknowledged one or the other. The young duke could do no more than nod once to Anthony in agreement.

It would be best, for all of them, to get in Wolsey's good graces while there was still time.

He paused in the archway around the corner from the large presence chamber, his hands down and palms turned back to indicate his friends' halt. Without any further prompting, they made obeisance to their comrade's back and stepped aside. Whenever one had to face Henry, they normally had to do so alone. Edmund was grateful for this; if he was to be humiliated or chastised for some past grievance, it was better to have William and Anthony around the corner and not be direct witnesses. He looked to the right, where the king's crier waited. The crier, after nodding his head in respect to Edmund, banged his staff against the ground three times for silence.

In a string, clear voice, he deeply intoned, "His Grace, the duke of Somerset and Cornwall, Prince Edmund of England!"

Drawing a deep breath, Edmund made his left foot move, following the right swiftly. He knew better than to look Henry directly in the eye as he turned the corner, and so after kneeling the first time, he focused upon the royal standard. The intricate gold weaved upon the silk grew starker as he drew forward, lost to him on the second kneel. When he rose again, he stared at the king's chairs sitting upon the raised platform, scrolled and covered in soft brown velvet. Their opulence stood in deliberate contrast to the original chair Father had, since dark leather was the only luxury he allowed himself for sitting. Crossing the threshold into the presence chamber, he knelt one last time, staying on his knees before His Majesty. The tooled carpet was finely woven, and Edmund studied it intently as he waited in the deep quiet.

The creak of the doors behind him signaled that this was to be a private audience. He didn't know if he should be grateful or cautious because of that.

"Edmund." Henry's voice, low and even, echoed in his ears. Still, he would not look up, not until he was invited to do so. His brother had chosen to summon him formally, and he intended to keep the formal rules and regulations of such a summons. It was risky to do otherwise. The rustling of movement and the king's boots appearing in his line of vision showed that Henry had risen, and his hand roughly grabbed his chin and forced him to look up. "Rise, Your Grace."

Edmund wished he could unsee the pain and irateness that threatened to surface in his brother's eyes. Doing as he was told, the duke got to his feet, linking his hands behind his back and studiously staring ahead as Henry began to circle him. It vaguely reminded him of dogs surrounding a hind before going in for the kill. He swallowed against a dry throat, waiting.

"Wolsey tells me you represented our family well at Flodden two months ago." His voice was calm, measured. Edmund half turned his head in his brother's direction, observing the priest's presence for the first time since arriving. He stood, his back against the far walls and his hands folded before his stomach. Around him ringed Henry's trusted confidants, Master Brandon positioned closer to the cleric than the others. The older men looked imposing, bodies poised on the brink of fight or flight. Edmund stared them down, refusing to be intimidated by them. He was of their caliber now; his time spent at war made him just as much a man as any of them.

"I...did what I could, for England and for Your Majesty."

"Despite my express command that you stay at court." It was not a question, but Henry clearly expected an answer. The younger Tudor was flabbergasted; he did not have any inkling of what the king had wanted to speak to him about, but this was not what he thought would be discussed. He dropped his gaze to the floor again.

"I, I thought it was best to go—"

Henry was in front of him again, face contorted in rage and preparing to eviscerate him.

"—As Katherine was with child and unable to, as regent."

"You purposefully ignored my declarations to the contrary, for the pursuit of your own ambition and vainglory!"

The duke bit down hard on his lip, trying to rein in his temper. Edmund was deeply confused. Henry knew that he was to go out to Flodden, had written even to congratulate his brother on his forwardness and determination. It was the closest thing to his blessing as he could have gotten. Why was Edmund being reprimanded for something that he was approved for?

"Your pompous arrogance could have cost you your life, and England _both_ its heirs."

He caught the inflection of Henry's words. Like the trickling of water down a wall, it all fell into place at that moment. Edmund was being blamed, in some twisted way, for the loss of the next heir. His nephew's death, a terrible blow to the king, was being turned back on him. His irresponsibility, his vanity, his recklessness was the reason why the boy was dead. Never mind the fact that the little prince was dead and buried long after the battle had happened; Henry was looking for someone to turn his anguish on, and he found his brother and his irreverent behavior to bear the brunt of it.

It would do no good to point out that babies died everyday, that God had a reason and a plan for everything, including the loss of a prince. Henry, from a young age, could not tolerate failure, and he would find fault in whoever he perceived to be failing him. It was never his own shortcomings that he railed against, it was always someone else. And since Katherine had managed to obtain his pity for her continued grief and illness, he was determined to come down on someone else. Who better to scold for the loss of the child than the one who seemed to profit the most? Who better to take to task than the boy who stood in the way of his son's chances, barring him from the throne and even from life with his behavior?

The young man's green eyes widened in total shock.

"Hal..."

The king snatched him by the collar, dragging him forward. His tone, sharp and harsh, shook him. "You will address me as 'Your Majesty' from now on. Closeness is reserved for those who have pleased me, and you have greatly displeased me, Your Grace."

Releasing him, Henry watched grimly as Edmund stumbled back, cheeks red with his own growing embarrassment and anger. It took everything, every bit of willpower within him, to restrain himself from shouting back. All Edmund's strength was tested, the only thing stopping him from acting on his feelings being that it was his king before him instead of his brother. The masks Henry wore, interchangeable as they were, could never disguise the fact that underneath it all, he was lord and master in this realm. To infuriate him could damn someone to death, or to the Tower if they were unlucky. To lay hands on him could mean worse. Edmund's face was contorted in vexation, his own mask trembling in its wake.

"You are to withdraw from court, Your Grace. You will remove yourself to Somerset House, and stay there until you learn to respect and obey your king. At all costs. You will leave immediately."

Banished, then. There was no more he could do, as defense and protestations both would risk worse accommodations than his own house. Balling his hands into fists, he bowed low to his brother, the king.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"And you will be going alone. I will not have the sons of some of our great houses be influenced by your example."

His head snapped up at that, and for once the family resemblance between him and Henry was strong. The Tudor temper flared to life, making him practically vibrate at the unfairness of this treatment. In the haze Edmund could see nothing save for the waving of the king's hand, dismissing him effectively.

If any of the sadness in his brother's eyes registered, it did not occur to him until much later.

**xXxXxXx**

There was no grand farewell for the duke of Somerset that afternoon as he turned his horse onto the track that led away from Richmond Palace. His household, quickly assembled and hastily packed, clattered after him. Isolated is what Henry wanted him to be, an afternoon banquet drawing in all the court and forcing his friends to attend or be swiftly reprimanded as well. Margaret, hovering by a mullioned window, was able to wave good-bye for a short moment before bustling away. News of the departure would leak through the courtiers days after the fact, speculation would run rampant. Edmund snorted as he thought of that, since he knew Henry's friends would greatly profit from being present at his humiliation and able to tell the story to others. It did him no good to think on that, and so pushed all thought from his mind.

His cloak billowed out as he drove his horse hard down the road, not hearing any well-wishing from His Majesty's subjects or seeing their fingers pointing at his standard as he flew by. His brilliant clothing, the beautiful mounts and the number of retainers grasped the attentions of all as they swiftly moved out of London, their lord determined to cover many miles before nightfall. The shine of the surface captured them, as the first hairline fracture in the glass veneer of the royal family cracked beneath the glaze.

* * *

**A/N: **Yep, Henry is being unfair. But then, he wasn't the nicest of kings, even to his own family. And he had a tendency to blame everyone else for his problems as opposed to himself, so this is not that far out of the realm of possibility. In truth, I wanted Edmund to get away from court for a little bit, especially during his formative years. And I wanted him to see that even he is not safe from his brother's wrath. The knowledge will aid him later in life...  
The poll is still up on my page. I would appreciate any of you taking the time to vote on it. Thanks, and see you next chapter!


	9. Midwinter

******Disclaimer: **I own nothing of ___The Tudors_. That belongs to Showtime, Michael Hirst, etc. etc.

* * *

February 21st, 1514

The daylight, weak through the gray winter clouds, moved along the wall, testament to the ticking hours. Edmund sat in his chambers, unmoving from his seat at the window. It was the seat that gave him the best view of the long lane that led to his house. The bustling of the servants, few though they were, had grown since he had risen for the day. A line of wagons extended out from the courtyard down the road, churning up the frozen mud as they went. Covered in hardy woolen sheets, he could see a golden glint here and a crimson flash there, but the contents remained a secret otherwise. The drivers, along with him, cursed the oncoming snow, trying to hurry through their task and get indoors before freezing. He sighed, twitching the cuffs of his shirt. Breeches and hose tucked into tall boots completed his decidedly shabbier appearance.

It was his birthday; he could wear as much or as little as he wanted. Well, before his birthday dinner, that is. He shrugged his shoulders and half grinned to himself. It was good that he held enough sway to convince his body servants to leave off until well after dinner. After all, it was hardly past ten o'clock anyway.

It was also well over three months since Edmund had last been at court, dancing attendance on his brother, Henry VIII. Not Hal, of course, for he had no such permission to call him that while in disgrace. No, his brother the king had made that quite clear. His somewhat cheerful mood at watching the wagons of presents roll into the yard of Somerset House evaporated when his thoughts turned, yet again, to the circumstances of his banishment. He had gone to war, and in doing so, he went against the express command of his sovereign.

No one ever alluded to the fact that it wasn't so much that he had made Henry furious because of his own actions, than it was that Henry was seeking relief for his own pains. The latest miscarriage of Katherine the Queen had rankled, had bruised the king's pride and destroyed his hopes yet again for an heir of his body. So he did the only thing he could think of: channel the hurting into something useable, pushing him into doing something that distracted him from the original source. And for the first time, his displeasure landed across the shoulders of one of his own family.

Edmund ground his teeth, stalking away from the window to the silver decanter sitting on a side table by the grand fireplace. Pouring himself a glass of wine, he mused about his predictions about it all. He knew, just _knew_ that Henry would find someone at fault for something totally unrelated to his private pain. Perhaps he should just be grateful that it was not the Queen who was banished. Her good heart and kind soul deserved much more than to be battered about by Henry's mercurial moods. There was one silver lining in the dark cloud.

However, it was one of the only bright things about the banishment. Edmund, as a result of his "'folly," had lost out on the chance to be with his family, with his friends. He spent the Twelve Days of Christmas in the company of his servants and the surrounding gentry, instead of in the family circle. Any gifts for him had to be sent by wagon, much like they were today, and he could only learn by letter of the revelry and celebration, with Margaret lamenting his absence. Acidly he wrote back how it was no fault of his; the current posting he had taken up was on the command of the king, and if it troubled her, she should take her woes to Henry. Edmund regretted the harsh tone of the missive after sending it, but he couldn't help himself. He was isolated, alone, with only his tutors for any intelligible company. Anthony and William were forbidden to attend on him, instead being pushed back to either their own homes or to new apartments at the palace. Swallowing a long gulp of wine, he meandered towards his writing desk in the chamber beyond, turning over the papers to read Anthony's latest letter. Skimming over the greeting, which wished him health and happiness on his birthday, he frowned as he reread a certain paragraph in the middle.

_...As pertaining to the request of your last letter, I did try to fulfill it. On Tuesday last, I judged my time upon leaving the schoolroom and entering the gardens precisely when His Majesty was out walking with the queen. It was a cold day, so they were making a brisk pace along the paths around the ponds; I struggled to get ahead of them and appear under one of the frosted arbors. Once we'd met, the king inquired as to my progress with Seneca and Cyrus, with only half a mind as I know he is busy pondering the question of what to do regarding returning to France for battle. I confess I thought it best to say that although I was doing well enough, I did regret not being able to attend my lessons with you, as you always had a valuable insight. And so I innocently asked him about your return to court, since you were "unable" to be here for Christmas._

_His Majesty was not best pleased, if the look he gave me was any indication. However, he did not rage like he could have, instead just noting that your return was contingent upon your submission to his will. Her Majesty nodded, saying that she was sure you repented your wrongs, and dearly missed the king your brother. King Henry said no more, just set his jaw and nodded before leading her away, wishing me continual luck with my studies as he did so._

_Edmund, my lord duke and friend, I am sorry for this turn of events. It could be some time before the king thinks favorably of you again. I pray it will not be long..._

Edmund prayed for it, too, and most heartily. But nothing could be done today, even on his birthday. A shout sounded out in the hallway, pulling him from his miserable thoughts and turning his attention to the fast-approaching manservant.

"Yes? What is it?" the young duke wondered, waving for the man to rise from his bow swiftly. Did a cart turn over, or did a fight break out in the courtyard?

"Sir, a messenger of the King's has arrived and awaits you in the great hall."

Pressing his lips tightly together, the young duke nodded, pushing past the fellow and out the door. He moved swiftly through the corridors, descending the steps with ringing taps of boot heels. No clicking tongues or disapproving looks regarding his attire could stop him. Unbidden, a spring of hope welled up. But as he arrived upon the ground floor, his grimace grew deeper as he viewed the messenger. The man, hair cut short and blue eyes dancing, swept a bow and bent his long, muscled frame. His clothing, by virtue of the nature of England in wintertime, was flecked with snow and frozen dirt, telling of his hard ride. But his face...it was the face of someone he knew would be no champion for his cause.

Politeness stirred in Edmund, forcing him to give a curt greeting. "Master Brandon."

Happy birthday, indeed.

**xXxXxXx**

With little ceremony, Edmund conveyed him to his study, directing Charles Brandon to a chair before a half-stirred fire. A gentleman came forward, producing hot mulled wine to help the friend of the king's stave off the chill of his travels. Edmund, choosing neither to sit nor drink, instead rested against the far wall and crossed his arms.

"Welcome to Somerset House, sir." Courtesy was his fallback, as he never had much to say to Charles Brandon. In all the years he'd known the fellow, he had never been close to him. Brandon was first and foremost Henry's man, allegiance owed to him out of the wish of the king and through the courage of his own father. A child of the standard bearer of Henry VII, Charles had been sent to the children's household years after that fated day on Bosworth Field to repay the dying's man loyalty. As a result, he had been raised a gentleman, a gentleman too good to pay any notice to the youngest Tudor boy. Still, he was the king's boon companion, as close as a brother to Henry as Edmund was...perhaps more so, since they were closer in age than the actual blood brothers. Stories of his talents on the field and in the jousting arena conflicted with his reputation of taking women and favors as freely as any wanton. "Your timing is impeccable, as always."

Charles, with his amused smirk, shrugged his shoulders and said, "I did wish to arrive in time for your birthday, Your Grace. Many happy wishes for you, Lord Somerset."

He toasted the heir presumptive, with Edmund inclining his head in thanks. Edmund studied him for a moment, the grown man easily meeting his eye. The chap would not squirm like others did in the presence of the duke. Most likely it was because he was older, and had known him since he was in the cradle. It's unlikely for one to be cowed by someone they knew in short clothes, and Edmund was honest enough with himself to know that.

The lord Somerset moved away from the wall, retreating to his large desk, littered with requests and petitions from his retainers. Several villages in the county were suffering from the brittle ice and snow, and his elected men were asking for more provisions to be sent from London. Having traveled to these villages himself, he knew their requests to be valid. In truth, he'd not spent much time in Somersetshire before his banishment, preferring instead to leave his holdings in the care of others. When he first glimpsed the poverty just beyond his own doorstep, he decided to do a good turn with his own hands. As best he could, anyway; he did not know how long he could expect to be out there, but he would do his best by them, all the same.

"You were announced as a messenger of the King, and so I have to wonder at your business here, sir. His Majesty made it abundantly clear that he had no further messages for me at present," Edmund stated bluntly. Out here, in his house, he had no need for fanciful words and pointed looks. He could be honest here, which was more efficient and useful of his time. Another silver lining for the cloud, he reflected. Brandon, respectfully rose from his chair, cup left behind as he approached the lad. His infamous charm, Edmund saw, was laid aside. It would be useless, in any case; Edmund was not a lady, after all, and a Tudor besides. The Tudors used charm, but were never abused by it, not when in the hands of others.

"I come with the message of Henry's heart, even though pride does not permit him to express it directly."

The duke narrowed his eyes at that. "Do you, now? And what makes you think you know what Hen—His Majesty, has in his heart?"

If Brandon had caught his quick correction, he did not acknowledge it. "You know he did not mean what he said, my lord."

"Then, perhaps, he should say what he means."

"Belligerence helps no one, you even less."

Edmund raised an eyebrow. "Maybe not, but it serves me in the interim."

He watched as Brandon closed his eyes, rolling them behind the lids, no doubt. A corner of the young man's mouth raised; out away from the court, one had to make his own entertainment.

"I came here in the interest of peace. I wish, at the promptings of your friends and your sisters, to enable a truce between you and your royal brother."

"To instigate a truce, that would imply that we are fighting. We are, in actual fact, not at war," Edmund protested mildly. "I would not dare; war was what got me banished in the first place."

"My lord duke, will you please at least hear me out?" Charles asked, his patience wearing thin. Edmund sighed, gesturing for him to go on. "In your mind, yes, you are correct. You are not at war with your brother. But, as you know very well, it does not matter what is in your mind. It is in the King's mind which the matter will ultimately be settled. If His Majesty perceives that you were in the wrong, you know what you must do to correct it. A king may say his answerable for his conduct, but you know this king better than the others."

Wary green eyes met washed-out blue. Yes, it was true, Edmund did know his brother. Knew him well enough to have predicted the hammer falling on one person or another. His pride, the little that he had regained in the weeks following his confession to Katherine, however, was wounded when the stroke fell on him. And he had been determined to lick his wounds in private, away from the king and court and all manner of treachery. The sins of his soul would never have been made in vain, his brother knew that, and he was the least likely person to act without even veiled permission to endanger his life or others. Henry, in his heart, knew he could be wrong. But, that same pride that live in Edmund had puffed up like a popinjay in His Majesty. He would never own to his faults.

Not publicly, at least.

He regarded Charles in a new light, observing his mission for the first time since his arrival. "Indeed, Mister Brandon."

Another long moment passed, in which the two merely watched one another, saying nothing but letting the room be filled with things left unsaid. Rising from his chair, Edmund straightened his back and went around the desk. For the first time in ages, the duke extended a friendly hand to the standard bearer's son, and the other man had accepted.

Charles was Henry's friend, but perhaps he could be Edmund's ally.

"Thank you for your message, Charles. If you like, you may stay for the banquet tonight. I cannot promise much company, but at least you will be fed and amused...after a fashion."

"I would be honored, my lord Somerset."

Sending him off to a room that was being readied for the visitor, Edmund returned to his own chambers shortly after. Retrieving his portable writing desk, he stared down at the untarnished vellum for several minutes.

A king may answer to his conduct, honorable or not. But not often, and never in public. And a prince, a duke, a brother should know that better than most. Pride had accompanied him in the fall, and now he needed humility. Feigned humility, but it would be for the better. Sharpening his quill, he dipped it into the heated ink, scratching a short note to His Majesty, to return with Brandon on the morrow.

_...And with all humbleness, I sign this as ever your loyal and loving brother,_

_E. Somerset._

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**A/N:** ...Someone has to be the bigger man here. That's my argument for how this chapter turned out. And this is after adjustments. Also, first story dialogue for Charles Brandon. He has been mentioned a few times, but never had a chance to say his piece. So...there you go. A little shorter this time around, but with any luck we can make the transition out of 1513-1514, to a later date...perhaps something closer to the actual show territory? We will see...  
Now, in the course of writing this story, I have two unused, deleted scenes/alternate scenes. Time for DVD extras!...Just kidding.  
Also, poll is still active on my page. Vote if you so choose. Thanks, and have a good day/night!


	10. On the Threshold

******Disclaimer: **I own nothing of ___The Tudors_. That belongs to Showtime, Michael Hirst, etc. etc.

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February 19th, 1516

In two years, the passage of time in the life of King Henry VIII's court commenced. Years of ups and downs, of contracts and negotiations, of broken alliances and forged paths. Another pregnancy of the Queen had come to pass, and this newest one had carried to full term.

And in this year, on this day, Edmund Tudor, Duke of Somerset and Cornwall, Prince of England, found himself once again in chapel. Just shy of his seventeenth birthday by days, he felt much older than his years. He found himself in need of prayer. Good, solemn prayer, and again, not for his sake. He was strong, he was healthy, he had endured and lived in the deep pit of enmity and intrigue of his brother's court.

For though Katherine's pregnancy had gone through, the result was one that caused ripples of dissatisfaction in the people. Not one day ago, she had delivered the fruits of hers and Henry's labors, wishing to rejoice in the product of their union. With this child, she had thought to steady herself once again, win back the husband she was slowly losing. With a son, she would be Henry's dearest, his beloved queen, the woman whom no one, neither lord nor lady, could go against. With a prince, she could finally allay her husband's fears of being childless, and more importantly, still the whispers that were hanging upon the edges of the palace.

Once, before her confinement, Katherine had requested a visit from her young brother-in-law. It was the end of January, past Christmas celebrations, and the court had moved to Greenwich Palace (which had once been both his and Henry's childhood home of Placentia, before the king chose to rename it). The winter winds had driven all indoors; even Henry's close friend William Compton, a man known to take many risks for the sake of entertainment, would not dare to go out on that day. And so, not wishing to be trapped amongst her ladies before she had to be over the next month, the queen had extended an invitation to the duke of Somerset to talk. Once the pleasantries were out of the way, she insisted on his speaking of his life. Demurring did him no good, even though she was as privy to his daily activities as a mother would be. Determined to hear about his schooling and his efforts in the jousting arena, she listened closely, but he could see that something was not right with her. She held back something unsettling, her blue eyes wavering as he chanced to look upon her.

"Your Majesty, are you well? Shall I fetch-" Edmund began, worry slipping into his words. Even at this late stage, she could lose the child. He remembered only too well what had happened the last time he was present for a miscarriage. The wince she tried to suppress indicated her all-too-painful memories of the event as well. He could have bit off his own tongue over his insensitivity.

"I am well enough, Your Grace. No need to fetch anything," she murmured. Her fingers played at the folds in her gown, the only sign that she was more agitated than she would let on. Her gaze fell onto her ladies, all of whom were seated at the back of the room to afford the royal family members a measure of privacy. In a moment of silence, she seemed to decide something, and waved away the others. Edmund, confused but catching on, sent his own servant out into the hall, waiting until the door had fully closed behind them.

"What is it, my lady?" he ventured, before risking, "Dear sister Katherine, are you truly alright?"

Mutely, she shook her head, extending her hand to him. Not known to be an overly affectionate woman, the young man was surprised at her clear wish for comfort. Loosely gripping her fingers, he clutched tighter when he registered the coldness in them.

"No, Edmund. I am...so afraid." She whispered it, embarrassment and agitation pronouncing the Spanish accent she had never quite lost in her time in England. Her free hand pressed against her forehead, a wretched headache coming on. They persisted throughout her pregnancy, but she reckoned they had more to do with outward circumstances. "I should not share this with you, as it is a burden only a woman can bear, but...I am fearful, for my unborn child. And...I fear...the consequences of it."

"The consequences?" Edmund looked at her, glimpsing the heaviness of her body and the hardness settling on her face. She was just thirty years old last month, but only now was she looking her age. The lovely princess he remembered was disappearing in the haze of childhood. She was a woman, and an aging woman besides. The lines in her face, which had come more from sorrow than from laughter, were beginning to cut deep around her eyes and mouth. The little weight that she had gain due to pregnancy gathered mostly along her neck and jaw, and that was what he could see.

Her gaze held his, stilling his contradictions even as they bloomed in his mind. "If I do not have a boy, I do not think Henry will be as pleased as he would have been years ago. The old rumors persist, those that say I am not your brother's wife. You know them: the ones that say Arthur was my true husband."

He did indeed. In fact, he had blackened the eye of one such fellow, who had joked that Her Majesty's lack of progeny should be expected from a "consummated" wife while he visited his first pub beyond the palace gates with his friends. The resulting scuffle resulted in him, Anthony, and William being thrown out despite their status, and he had had a stern talking-to from Henry. Luckily, since the event did not take place within the court's precincts, he managed to keep his hand, if not his pride.

"If I present Henry with a princess, after all this time, some people may take the rumors as truth. And so, there will be consequences, most likely at my husband the King's hand. I only wish that he will not take it out on our baby."

She looked away to the crackling fire, posture stiff and cold in the face of it. Edmund gripped her fingers tighter, trying to warm her. He did not know what to say to her, tongue freezing in his mouth. He could make no promises, as he had no guarantee that he could keep them. After all, he could say he would protect the child today, and die tomorrow. And where would that leave Katherine and the newborn?

He told her the only thing that could possibly buoy either of them. "Then I pray to God you have a son, my queen. More fervently than ever."

Despite the prayers and masses, despite Henry's confident predictions and the queen's mutual wishes, it went awry, promise or not. The baby, hale and lovely, was a girl. Not the heir his brother so desperately craved, but a girl, and a small one besides. Edmund, upon seeing the child in the cradle on his first visit to the queen's chambers, nearly despaired, but her steady breath and her sharp eyes, newborn dark and studying the world around her, caught his breath. She looked much like Henry did in that moment, as though she had seen the world and found it wanting. She was a princess of the blood, no mistake about that.

And there was no doubt in his mind that Henry would adore her. That much he could vouch for. Everything else, though, was no guarantee, and that was why he ventured into the chapel, sidestepping cleaning women who were preparing it for the baby's baptism. She was to be named Mary, in their elder sister's honor. He had hoped, with the gesture, he could lift his sister's spirits somewhat since the dilapidation of her second marriage and her unfortunate flight overland to England once more. There was some talk of a treaty that would focus on reconciliation with Scotland and her husband, but it would not go into effect just yet (and she dreaded the thought of leaving under any circumstance, she'd confessed once). In any case, the Princess Mary was to be blessed in a few short days, with the newly-invested Lord Chancellor Wolsey acting as godfather. Thomas Howard's mother, upon the reclaiming the family's old dukedom of Norfolk, had been honored as a godmother, alongside their aunt Catherine. As the countess of Devon, she was hard-pressed to arrive on time, but she had reinforced her confidence at being there for her great-niece. Henry explained why he did not choose either Edmund or Margaret to him privately, as if he thought both of them would be overly stung by the rejection.

"For my two dearest siblings, who else would I let you stand as godparents for other than my son?" he had whispered to the duke after his formal introduction to the little princess. Henry's eyes darkened a shade, as his disappointment bled through the happy facade. "Whenever he chooses to come."

Edmund was not offended in the slightest; Henry had chosen a God-fearing man and a steadfast family member to bring Mary to the path of right. And Surrey's mother, the Duchess of Norfolk, could be trusted to lead the girl to the light of God. He could not begrudge him that. And Margaret...well, she seemed to take it well enough. She was safe enough where she was, and if she was not on public display at the baptism, stared at by foreign dignitaries who would approach Henry on their masters' behalf for her hand, she was adequately pleased indeed. Edmund had thanked her drily for allowing him to face the brunt of it all.

For now, the pressure was on him to marry as well. And especially since Mary had been born Mary, and not a Henry. He had to admit, half his prayers were likely to be selfish in that regard, because he would be at his brother's mercy in regards to his marriage. Henry, as his king and his eldest brother, would be the one who ultimately gave favor to one foreign power or another, and Edmund's preferences would little matter. If she was of age, healthy, and handsome enough for a prince of England, any high-born lady was a contender. And no amount of pleading on the duke's part would delay negotiations when they were approved; an heir, if not provided for by Henry, needed to be brought forth by the youngest Tudor. He just hoped his prayers would be answered, if only that he would not be married before he had a chance to experience life outside the schoolroom on his own.

Things like that were rare for a prince, even more rare for an heir to the throne.

Suddenly, two halberds blocked his path; a pair of royal guards denied him access to the nave. About to voice his objections, his gaze flicked over to the kneeling form of the king, his head turning at the sound of clanking arms. Henry's eyes, formerly having been closed as he communicated with God, widened at the sight of his brother. With a gesture of his hands, he stayed his overzealous guards.

"Brother Edmund," he greeted in a gravely voice. Edmund bowed, not moving past the guards without explicit permission from his monarch.

"Majesty," he returned. "Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude."

Henry shook his head. "Do not worry about that. I have finished. Come, let us walk."

He phrased it as a request of sorts, but Edmund did not dare refuse. The sting of his banishment, now two years old, was fresh enough that he did not dare toe the line with Henry. His forgiveness, slow though it was in coming, had to be met on Henry's terms, and only after Edmund had supplicated to his will in the form of a letter. And his reception back at court after that was bright, as if Henry had never banished him in the first place. Still, he knew better than to give his sovereign an open avenue to traverse regarding his perceived behavior. Casting a long look at the altar, he merely bowed in respect to both his God and king in one movement. The good Lord would be waiting for him in His House, in any case.

The royal brothers exited through a side door, walking slowly through a long gallery as the wind was especially bitter that day. Upon Henry's command, all courtiers were to remove themselves as he spoke with his young brother.

"We have not spoken to one another like this in quite some time, Ned. I have received reports on your progress; your Latin translations are good, though lacking in finesse," Henry murmured, watching Edmund's face color. Whether it was because he had personally seen the translations himself or if it was the use of Edmund's since-abandoned nickname, he was unsure. Six years at court was not long enough for him to fully disguise his feelings or thoughts, and he reckoned the lad would never be a good dissembler.

"It is true enough, Your Majesty. Though I am content with the result, as another prince has far outshone me in the subject. I am more than happy to take second place to him," Edmund replied slowly, clumsy flattery working well on the king despite the execution. Henry did always value a bit of praise; he was not hailed as a golden prince for nothing, after all. He clapped his arm over the duke's shoulder, patting it affectionately.

"It is good you have not forsaken your honesty, Brother, unlike others who live at court," Henry remarked, smile fading a little as he turned the thought over in his mind. Edmund watched him closely, his heart shrinking at the sight of the set jaw and cold ice in the older man's eyes. Was he speaking of the courtiers in general, or of someone specific? Or, God forbid, was he paying mind to the rumors which were flying about as Katherine had predicted? As soon as the storm flitted over his features, it was smoothed away, a tight grin taking place. "Indeed, you must teach our lovely daughter to maintain her own honesty. The Princess Mary will need fine examples to look up to, and who could be better than her uncle?"

Edmund grinned back, uncertain. "I hope to teach her what I can, in time. And then, in turn, she can teach her brother, when the time comes."

He had said the wrong thing. The dark look returned, and Henry's friendly arm slipped away, hands balled into fists at his sides.

"If the time ever comes," he muttered darkly. "It has been nearly seven years since our marriage, and only one daughter. We are running out of time...and I am running out of patience."

The duke of Somerset bit his tongue, which would have tumbled out a remonstrance about how callous his brother was being in regards to the birth that had only taken place several hours ago, but it would not do anyone any good. Especially Katherine. Better that he kept his mouth shut and allowed Henry to pour out his frustration to him, as opposed to someone considerably less friendly. Nobody, least of all the queen, was without enemies at court, and not even His Majesty knew who all of them were. If he blurted his dissatisfaction about Mary's birth to the wrong party, another of the great families would start to undermine her influence, what little she had left after her father had betrayed Henry regarding the war in France.

"A girl. A girl, Edmund! We...three princes beforehand, I was sure the next would be a boy, but..." Henry trailed off, shaking his head at his own stupidity. "Am I to be denied a son? Why would God think to do so? What is wrong with—"

"Everything happens in God's time, Your Majesty," Edmund cut in, attempting to quell the rising fury in his king. Henry's nostrils flared as he exhaled sharply in response, and so he hastily continued, "But a healthy girl surely is a sign that boys will follow soon enough? It bodes very well for the future, I think."

The glance thrown his direction held a measure of restrained anger, but His Majesty clenched his teeth before speaking again. "Think you so, Brother Ned?"

Reaching out tentatively, Edmund gripped his shoulder, expression earnest. "Yes...Hal."

Visibly, the king relaxed, and he returned the gesture. The brothers shared a long look with one another. It was true what Henry had said, they had not spoken to one another truly and honestly for quite a long time. Council and Parliament demanded the king's time, and the duke had to see to his estates and studies. Certainly, they had dinners and saw one another on a daily basis, but as one was still in the schoolroom and the other was a sovereign lord, it was hard enough to make time to pass greetings. Underneath the pleasantries and the pageantry of their shared lives, the moments in which they were simply brothers were few and far between. They were the last Tudor boys, the ones who stood between the world and the destruction of their line.

Edmund sincerely wished his brother to have a son. Not only to save a sister-in-law he cared about, but to delight the brother he loved.

A throat clearing caught their attention, their gazes turning onto a bowing groom. "Your Majesty, a Lady Elizabeth Blount is here."

Unimpressed, Henry pulled away from Edmund, adopting his authoritative hands-behind-back, legs spread stance. "Let her approach."

A young lady, outfitted in a silver and black gown indicative of her service to Her Majesty, was ushered in from the hall. Edmund felt more than heard the intake of breath his brother had made. For Elizabeth Blount was a beautiful woman. She had remained on the fringes of Katherine's ladies, hovering just in the background ready to fetch and carry. Edmund remembered her from his visits to the queen and the banquets held on occasion. She was pretty enough, he supposed, but as another man's wife, a knight's wife, he was not much interested in her. Honey-blonde hair escaped from her hood, framing an oval face. Her clear blue eyes took in the sight of both Tudors, her pink lips curving into a half-hidden smile as she made her curtsies. And from her obedient position, she allowed their eyes to rake over her slim, well-formed body. The air of subdued confidence spoke volumes in her silence, the king drinking it in.

_'Oh, Henry __**likes**__ this woman,'_ Edmund thought immediately, grimacing inwardly. _'Poor Katherine...'_

"Lady Blount, what brings you here?" His Majesty asked imperially, though with a soft look for her benefit. Boldly, she looked him in the eye as she made her report.

"Her Majesty wishes to ensure Your Majesty that she continues to enjoy good health, and would be pleased to see you, should you come to see her before the Princess Mary's baptism," she said, a rosy glow entering her cheeks.

Inclining his head, Henry skimmed over her form appreciatively. "Thank you, Lady Blount. I shall be there forthwith...if it be your pleasure to walk with me in the gardens first?"

She smiled, slipping a hand on top of his proffered one. "Whatever_ your_ pleasure is, Your Majesty, I will provide."

Henry raised an eyebrow, smirk growing wide. "Will you, my lady?"

And without a second thought to his brother, he walked her away, her response lost in the king's shouts for cloaks to be brought to him and Lady Blount. Edmund swallowed, the wide room suddenly becoming too enclosed for his tastes. Poor Katherine indeed, he mused privately, still making obeisance as he backed away from Henry's retreating form. His brother was king, he could do what he wanted, when he wanted to, and no one could gainsay him. If he wanted this Lady Blount for more than a walk in the gardens (and Edmund strongly suspected he did), it was his prerogative.

But a son, a legitimate son, would not be found down that avenue, and where then would England be? With a baby princess, a failing queen, a high-living king, and the stage of Europe before them, what could happen next?

* * *

**A/N: **Finally, we're almost to show territory! This chapter mocked me the entire time I was writing it, because it did not want to be written for so long! But here, finally, it let me finish it. With any luck, we will soon be jumping into the first episode very, very shortly...thanks for reading, please review, and I will see you next time!  
**EDIT: **Thanks to biancaruth for catching a mistake I had made in regards to elder sister Mary (who was really Margaret), proving once again that no one is infallible and that any help given to me is greatly appreciated. Thank you, madam!


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